THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


—    v    <?flSftg%  v^K^  ' 


t  fm'.. '  q      jn±. 


tf^fiK^^^  i*mj 

y.—  'ir*'- 


aSlSSte^li 


SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE 


BY 


CELESTE  MAY 


TOPEKA  KANSAS 

GEO.  W.  CRANE  &  CO.  PRINTEES  AND  BINDERS 

1886 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1886,  by 

CELESTE  MAY, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  Washington,  D.  C. 


DEDICATION. 

i. 

ACCEPT,  dear  parents,  in  token  of  my  love, 
This  little  book  of  poems — fancies  trove 

From  out  my  leisure  hours. 
And  if  your  approbation  they  secure, 
'  Twill  all  my  trepidation  reassure, 

And  strew  my  path  with  flowers. 

Through  love  of  thee,  'twas  first  I  tried  to  write, 
Hoping  I  might  some  pleasing  lines  indite, 

As  proof  of  my  deep  love. 
And,  if  I  can  your  hearts  and  ears  delight, 
I  shall  be  always  glad  I  tried  to  write, 

Expressing  filial  love. 
•• 

Begun,  it  seemed  the  outlet  long  desired, 

To  vent  the  deepest  thoughts  my  soul  acquired, 

And  longed  to  give  expression; 
Impressions  that  were  near  akin  to  pain, 
Till  they  were  made  to  live  in  words  again — 

Words'  true  and  highest  mission. 

762897 


4  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

Each  separate  life  its  own  experience  lives, 
Yet  all  have  much  in  common  —  and  it  gives, 

Pleasure  to  relate  it. 

The  poet  should  his  own  life  understand, 
And  every  phase  of  life  in  the  broad  land, 

And  truly  should  depict  it. 


n. 

In  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of  my  country  home, 
Many  pleasant  fancies   of  the  past  and  future 
come — 

A  past-time  most  unique: 
And  if  I  can  awaken,  in  one  sad  heart,  the  thrill 
Of  pleasures  long  forgotten — then  I  shall  fulfill 
The  mission  that  I  seek : 

Or  reproduce  to  memory  the  trials  bravely  stood, 
Inducing  faith  in  the  prophecy,  that  "All  things 
good 

Come  to  those  who  wait " — 
Then  I  shall  be  happy,  and  very  well  repaid 
For  these  simple  rhymes,  and  the  effort  I  have 
made 

To  enter  Fancy's  gate. 

In  "  Sounds  of  the  Prairie,"  it  is  my  aspiration, 
As  one  who  witnessed  it,  to  give  an  adumbra 
tion 

Of  the  pioneer's  privation. 


DEDICATION. 


In  others  I  have  sought  to  faithfully  portray 
Lessons  learned  around  us  in  things  of  every  day — 
Of  every  caste  and  station. 


On  the  stormy  sea  of  letters,  I  launch  my  little 

boat, 
Wondering  if  it  will  sink,  or  sail,  or  float, 

When  loosened  from  its  moorings. 
Like  a  bird,  I  send  this  fledgling  forth  from  the 

nest, 

Longing,  yet  dreading,  to  send  it  on  its  quest 
With  untried  wings. 

Yet  of  one  thing  I  feel  very  confident — 
You,  who  always  were  so  lenient 

With  my  childish  faults  and  failures, 
Will  surely  judge  as  kindly  now,  of  these, 
My  very  first  attempt  my  friends  to  please, 

In  soft  and  rythmic  measures. 


SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

Muse  of  all  the  Gifts  and  Graces! 

Though  the  fields  around  us  wither, 
There  are  ampler  realms  and  spaces, 
Where  no  foot  has  left  its  traces : 

Let  us  turn  and  wander  thither! 

— Longfellow. 

THE  PIONEER. 

"  MARY,"  said  John  Calhoun,  on  one  bright  sum 
mer  morn, 

As  he  was  starting  to  plow  his  rented  field  of 
corn, 

"If  you  are  willing,  we  will  westward  go  this 
fall, 

Where  the  proceeds  of  my  hard  labor  we  shall 
reap  all. 

And  we  can  make  us  a  home,  while  the  children 
are  yet  small, 

Which  will  always  do  us  honor — one  which  we 
all, 

While  they  are  still  about  us,  will  greatly  enjoy; 

And  it  will  our  youthful  time  and  energies  em 
ploy. 

It  is  very  hard  to  get  a  start  back  here,  you 
know, 

Where  on  another's  land  we  must  always  reap 
and  sow." 


8  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

And  Mary,  with  a  sinking  and  throbbing  at  her 

heart, 
For  the  old  associations  from  which  she'd  have 

to  part, 

Gave  quick  assent;  for  she  was  always  ready 
To  sacrifice  herself,  and  unselfishly  to  study 
For  the  good  of  others;  though  much  more  she 

would  renounce, 
Than  e'er  her  husband  dreamed;  for  much  more 

a  woman  counts 
The  love  of  home  and  friends   than  does  the 

manly  heart, 
Which,  ever  here  and  yonder,  contentedly,  can 

dart; 

Nor  is  so  closely  bound  by  early  ties  and  pleas 
ure, 
But  thinks  the  great  round  world  but  suited  to 

his  measure. 


And  so,  while  he  industriously  his  crops  at 
tended, 

She  busily  sewed,  devised,  repaired  and  neatly 
mended 

Their  clothes  and  household  goods;  and  made 
all  preparation, 

To  be  in  readiness  for  the  long  privation 

She  knew  they  must  endure,  in  changing  their 
location. 

The  odds  and  ends  of  work  were  brought  unto 
completion ; 


THE  PIONEEK.  9 

The  last  quilt  quilted,  and  woven  the  new  rag 

carpet  gay — 
Work  of  the  thrifty  housewife's  hands  for  many 

a  day. 
For  though  to  far-off  western  prairies  they  were 

going, 
She  thought,  'mong  needful  things,  some  beauty 

of  bestowing. 


At  last  the  day  set  for  their  departure  was  at 

hand; 
Ready  the   great,  stout  team   and   the  covered 

wagon  stand, 
Equipped  for  the  long  journey;  and  the  hour  of 

parting 
From  father,  mother,  sister,  brother  and  friends, 

starting 
Away  from  so  much  they  had  loved  and  prized 

before  — 
'Twas  as  if  on  all  their  former  lives  they'd  shut 

the  door — 
Beginning    life    in    a    new   country,   with   new 

friends; 
'Where  success  on  their  own  pluck  and  energy 

depends: 
So  the  first  real  grief  she'd  ever  known  was  thus 

entailed, 

But  love  for  those  who  nearest  were  at  last  pre 
vailed. 

i 

2 


10  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PBAIKIB. 

"Within  their  roomy  wagon,  they  had  stowed 
away 

The  things  they  most  would  need  for  many  a 
long  day; 

For  little  time  or  means  to  purchase  them  again 

They'd  have,  when  far  out  on  their  homestead 
claim ;  and  then 

It  would  seem  more  like  home  to  have  the  self 
same  things, 

For  fond  association  to  all  our  home  things 
clings. 

Tied  on  top  the  feed  box,  was  a  coop  of  Ply 
mouth  Kock  fowls; 

The  house  dog,  too,  is  with  them,  and  at  ap 
proach  of  intrusion  growls. 

And  slowly  led  along,  as  if  she  were  loth  to  go, 

Tied  to  the  wagon,  the  favorite  cow,  soft-eyed 
and  slow. 

For  weeks,  slowly  but  steadily  westward  they 
kept  their  way; 

Camping  at  night,  weary,  but  feeling  that  every 
day 

Brought  them  nearer  to  their  longed-for  destina 
tion. 

For  the  children,  the  travel  and  camp  fires  were 
pleasant  recreation ; 

And  all  enjoyed  the  victuals  cooked  on  the  glow 
ing  coals 

Of  a  fire  that's  nearly  burned — built  in  little 
scraped-out  holes 


THE  PIONEER.  11 

In  the  ground.     The  fragrant,  steaming  coffee, 

and  the  bowls 
Of    delicious   bread    and    milk,   refreshed   their 

weary  souls; 
And  just  as  sweet  their  sleep,  in  the  wagon  or  on 

the  ground, 
As  ever  it  was  in  their  beds  at  home — and  just 

as  sound. 

Beyond  the  marts  of  men,  wilder  grew  the  scene 

And  fewer  the  habitations;  many  miles  would 
intervene 

Between  the  towns.  And  on  every  side,  like  a 
smooth-waved  sea, 

A  beautiful  view,  lay  the  clean-grassed,  undulat 
ing,  western  prairie. 

A  little  further  on,  and  they  began  the  pleasant 
task 

Of  choosing  a  location  —  one  as  fine  as  they 
could  ask, 

They  were  not  long  in  finding;  and  at  once  they 
set  to  work 

To  build  a  house  upon  it,  for  hard  work  they 
would  not  shirk. 

And  first,  the  breaking  plow  was  called  in  requi 
sition, 

Turning  the  sod  in  a  square,  about  the  chosen 
position. 

Not  long  were  John's  strong  arms  in  laying  up 
the  sod 


12  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

In  four  straight  walls;  while  Mary  and  the  chil 
dren  stood 
Approvingly — giving   the   assistance  that  they 

could. 
And  then,  for  covering  it,  he  sought  the  scanty 

wood, 

Found  a  tree  well  suited  to  his  purpose,  quickly 
Felled,  loaded,  and  hauled  home;  where  he  most 

deftly 
Constructed  from  its  branches  a  great  beam  and 

rafters; 
These   he  thatched  with  willows,  and   covered 

with  sod.     After 

Some  delay  and  much  hard  work,  he  procured 
A  shelter  that  seemed  a  home,  after  all  they  had 

endured, 
In  living  in  their  wagon,  or  under  the  broad, 

blue  sky. 
For  windows  and  doors  they  must  wait,  for  there 

was  no  place  nigh 
Where  they  could  be  procured,  till  a  well  was 

dug  and  walled, 
And    then   he'd,  drive   a   distance    back   which 

would  have  appalled 

A  man  less  resolute,  and  buy  the  windows  and 
doors, 

The  supplies  for  the  winter,  and  lumber  for  the 
floors. 

Hard  he  worked,  and  steady,  but  late  it  was  in 
'  the  fall, 

Before  he  found  time  to  plaster  the  black,  un 
gainly  wall; 


THE  PIONEER.  13 

Then  laid  was  the  bright  rag  carpet,  and  hung 

the  curtains  white; 
The  snowy  bed  in  one  corner — in  the  other  the 

stove  so  bright. 

A  few  bright  prints  they  had  brought,  hung  on 

the  whitewashed  wall; 
And   white  muslin   for   the   ceiling  hung  high 

above  it  all. 

With  real  appreciation,  and  satisfaction  keen, 
They  viewed  the  work  of  their  hands — proud  as 

any  king  or  queen; 
For,   though  without   'twas  homely,  it  was  all 

their  own; 
Within,  in  thrifty  tidiness,  its  home-like  comfort 

shone. 
And  here,  reluctantly,  we'll  leave  them — feeling 

sure 

Such  enterprise  as  they  possess  will  still  endure 
The  hardships  incident  to  life  on  the  frontier. 
Prosperity,   and    health,   and    wealth,   we   wish 

them,  here. 


14  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 


IN  THE  FALL  OF  1878. 

AFTER  dinner,  one  October  day, 

A  merry  group  sat  chatting, 

In  a  large  stone  house  by  the  creek ; 

Each  one  telling,  in  his  way, 

Of  where  he  had  been  living, 

And  the  home  he  had  come  to  seek, 

On  this  wide  and  beautiful  prairie. 


One  had  taken  this  claim,  another  that; 
Bach  dwelling  on  the  merits  of  his  piece, 
And  his  good  fortune  in  securing  it: 
And  thus,  in  pleasant  converse,  long  they  sat — 
The  several  families  who  had  procured  a  lease 
Of  this,  the  only  house  for  miles  about  it, 
Until  afforded  time  to  build  their  homes  — 


Nor  dreamed  of  fast-approaching  ill. 
At  length — "'Tis  Indian   summer,"  one  re 
marked, 

"And  we  must  to  work,  this  autumn  weather, 
Or  our  fond  hopes  we'll  not  fulfill, 
In  this  enterprise  in  which  we  are  embarked: " 
And  so  their  group  was  broken  up.     Thither, 
Each  one  started  to  his  work. 


THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE.  15 

Said  another,  on  reaching  the  out-door  air, 
"  'Tis  the  smokiest  Indian  summer,  I  declare, 

I  ever  saw — must  be  where  they're  manufac 
tured." 

And  another — "'Tis  the  smoke  from  a  prairie 
fire! 

And  we  must  fight  with  zeal  and  ire ! 

But  be  assured, 

The  women  and  children  are  safe,  right  here; 

So  let  them  stay  and  have  no  fear, 

For  all  around  the  house  'tis  clear 

Of   grass,   and  has   only  the   clippings   from 
stone." 

Away  they  went,  on  horses  fleet, 

"With  buckets,  and  sacks,  and  all  things  meet, 

Hoping  to  make  the  fight  complete, 

And  save  the  winter's  grazing. 

The  women,  with  white  and  ashen  face, 

Brought  the  carriages  and  cattle  to  the  place 

About  the  house,  for  safety. 

But  prairie  life  in  this  new  phase, 

Was  not  one  designed  to  raise 

Their  high  opinion  of  it. 

"  An  Indian  scare  they  had  just  passed  through ; 
Expecting,  hourly,  nobody  knew 
How  many,  or  when 
Some  of  the  bloodthirsty  clan 
Would  their  scalps  appraise 
And  their  dwellings  raze  — 


16  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

But  rumor  ran, 

That  there  were  thousands — and  the  van 

Was  close  at  hand. 


Many  for  safety  sought  the  nearest  fort; 

Others,  together,  sought  support 

In  numbers. 

They  of  whom  we  write  declared  they'd  stand 

On  their  own  land, 

And  try  to  save 

The  few  possessions  that  they  have, 

And  just  as  they  thought  the  fiends  all  passed, 

And  hegan  to  breathe  free  again,  at  last, 

Some  of  the  stragglers  of  the  band, 

With  savage  heart  and  cruel  hand  — 

Mad  at  the  soldiers — lit  the  brand 

Which  desolated  so  much  land. 

Dark  and  darker  grew  the  sky ! 
The  roar  and  crackle  soon  were  nigh, 
The  flames  and  smoke  ascending  high, 
In  spite  of  all  their  efforts. 
Two  great  burning  lines  of  flame  — 
One  on  either  side  the  creek — 
Swiftly,  madly,  onward  came, 
As  if  all  things  it  would  seek; 
Crackling,  roaring,  wildly  rushing 
Over  tree  and  shrub,  devouring 
Every  obstacle  in  its  way — 
Nothing  could  its  fury  stay. 


THE   PRAIRIE  FIRE.  17 

While,  far  back 

In  its  blackened  track, 

Smouldered  the  back-fires  sullenly. 

And  here  and  there 

The  lurid  glare 

Showed  some  new  place,  or  pasture  fair, 

A  victim  to  its  ravages. 

Fearful  it  was,  and  grand! 
In  awe  the  women  stand, 
Watching  the  burning  land, 
From  their  safe  shelter; 
And  yet  in  deep  suspense 
For  those,  who,  in  defense, 
Had  gone  to  fight  it. 

Exhausted,  breathless,  cinder-blackened, 

Seeing  their  efforts  vain, 

The  men  now  slackened 

Their  arduous  fight; 

And  the  fire,  in  its  resistless  reign, 

Swept  on,  with  ruin  in  its  train — 

Terrific  in  its  might. 

Sometimes,  the  side-fires  they  had  held  at  bay, 

Thinking  its  dreaded  havoc  thus  to  stay, 

Only  to  retreakat  last  and  give  full  sway; 

For  fire,  on  such  a  windy  day, 

Is  an  enemy  with  vantage. 

Xext  day,  for  miles  and  miles  around, 
Xaught  but  the  bare  and  blackened  ground 
Could  anywhere  be  seen. 


18  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

All  the  broad  acres  of  nutritious  grass, 

With  which  the  winter  they  had  hoped  to  pass 

Without  much  need  of  feed, 

Were  swept  away  by  its  greed. 

And  glad  were  they  when  the  snow,  so  white, 

Hid  the  blackened  prairie  away  from  sight. 


THE  SNOW. 

AT  first  it  tossed  wildly  about  in  the  air, 
Uncertain  if  it  were  to  lodge  here,  or  there, 
Angrily  beating  like  beast  in  its  lair — 
Penetrating  everywhere ; 
Blinding  and  driving  all  in  its  way, 
That  fiercely  cold,  bleak  winter's  day; 
And  man  or  beast  that  chanced  to  roam 
Far  from  shelter  or  from  home, 
Losing  his  way,  was  afterward  found, 
Frozen  and  dead,  in  a  snowy  mound. 

After  its  first  mad  fury  was  spent, 
Settling  in  quiet  and  content, 
It  made  the  earth,  so  black  and  bare, 
A  picture  of  beauty  and  pureness  fair, 
Glistening  in  the  moonlight  like  jewels  rare. 
And  many  weeks,  in  its  mantle  of  snow, 
The  earth  lay  enwrapped,  as  if  to  show 
A  pity  for  its  bareness. 


THE  SNOW.  19 

All   there  seemed   in  existence  was  a  sea  of 

snow; 

The  sky  overhead,  and  naught  below 
But  the  pure,  and  cold,  and  crystalled  snow. 
And  like  a  lone  ship  in  the  midst  of  the  sea, 
The  little  stone  house,  so  dear  to  me  — 
The  blue  smoke  curling  upward  from  its  chim 
ney, 

Looked  our  homestead  on  the  smooth,  white 
prairie. 


Beautiful  thought  it  was,  and  grand. 
Great  inconvenience,  on  every  hand, 
Was  endured  by  the  hardy  pioneer; 
Almost  unable  was  he  to  steer 
The  ship  of  home  through  safely,  here, 
Away  from  roads  and  all  supplies, 
Under  the  cold  and  wintry  skies. 


Indeed,  a  few  there  were  who  died 
Of  cold  and  hunger;  side  by  side, 
A  mother  and  her  infant  child 
Perished  from  the  blast  so  wild; 
"While  the  father  went  to  seek 
Food  and  fuel,  for  the  weak 
And  loved  ones  he  had  left  at  home; 
So  far  and  long  he  had  to  roam, 
That,  deterred,  he  came  too  late 
To  save  them  from  their  unhappy  fate. 


20  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

Like  all  things  else,  the  snow  at  last  was  gone, 

The  warmer  days  of  February  come, 

And  glad  were  they  to  see  the  earth  once  more, 

Though  burned  and  blackened  as  before. 

Very  late  it  was  before  the  green 

Of  the  fire-dried  prairie  could  be  seen. 

For  a  while  the  vegetation  grew, 

Then  came  the  drought,  and  filled 

Anew  with  dread  the  sinking  hearts  of  those 

Who  hoped  their  hardships  at  a  close. 


THE  DROUGHT. 

THE  sun  beat  hot  upon  the  withered  grass, 

That  crackled  under  foot  like  molten  glass; 

And  there  was  heard 

No  note  or  call  of  bird; 

Instead  of  cooling  zephyrs'  breath, 

The  southwest  simoon  brought  but  death. 

Instead  of  gentle  showers,  there, 
A  white  heat  on  the  earth  did  glare, 
And  vegetation,  brown  and  bare, 
Brought  forth  no  food 
For  man,  or  beast,  or  bird ; 
And  all  about  was  heard 
A  cry  of  desolation. 


THE  DROUGHT.  21 

The  streams  were  dry. 

Above,  the  clear  and  pitiless  sky 

Shone,  steady  and  bright, 

From  its  dazzling  height. 

The  birds  had  fled— 

The  fish  were  dead. 

Each  morning,  filled  with  dread, 

Unrested  from  the  night, 

The  inhabitants  awoke  and  fed 

Upon  their  scanty  bread, 

And  watched,  with  longing  eyes 

And  vain  expectancy,  the  skies; 

And  fain  would  stand 

Watching  a  cloud  no  larger  than  the  prophet's 

hand; 

But  not  with  equal  faith  that  it  would  bring 
From  the  dry  heavens  the  longed-for  rain. 

Sometimes,  gigantic  size  the  clouds  attained, 

Yet  all  their  life-giving  bulk  retained, 

Till  far  beyond  our  burning  sand, 

They  reached  a  happier-fated  land, 

And  there  unburdened,  in  kissing  showers, 

Upon  ladened  fields,  and  fruit  and  flowers. 

Beautiful  lakes,  in  mirage,  oft  were  seen, 
In  tantalizing  vision;  and  the  green 
Of  tall  trees  growing  close  beside, 
And  cities  mirrored  in  fictitious  tide; 
Making  the  people  feel  like  they  were  stranded 
Upon  Sahara's  desert,  empty  handed. 


22  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

Oh,  would  it  never  rain ! 

And  ease  the  burning  pain 

Of  the  scorched  earth, 

And  quench  this  awful  dearth ! 

"Would  there  never  again  come  dew, 

Fainting  nature  to  renew ! 


Must  they  abandon  their  prairie  home, 

For  the  antelope  and  buffalo  again  to  roam, 

Owners  of  all.     They  had  thought  it  grand, 

This  smoothly -lying  prairie  land, 

And  had  planned  what  beautiful  homes  they'd 

make, 
And  how  much  comfort  and  ease  they  would 

take. 


Now,  the  bustle  and  stir  of  ambition  all  hushed, 
Through  the  quiet  and  desolation  rushed 
Visions  of  once  happy  homes; 
And  ever  and  again  there  comes, 
To  overstrained  and  weary  heart, 
The  longing  to  return ;  and  so  depart 

Many,  to  their  former  home — 

Glad  to  be  gone — yet  leaving  some, 

Who  could  not  go, 

To  suffer,  slow 

And  bitter  pangs  of  hard  privation, 

Amounting  almost  to  starvation. 


THE  RAIN.  23 


But  they  struggled  bravely  on, 
Conquering  hardships,  one  by  one, 
Until,  inured  to  suffering  and  want, 
Nothing  could  their  spirits  daunt. 


THE  EAIN. 

AFTER  months  of  weary  waiting — 

Months  of  heartache  and  of  anguish  — 
Months  of  hoping  and  of  praying 

That  all  nature  might  not  languish, 
Came  the  blessed  rain,  in  torrents, 

Kissing  the  parched  earth,  and  cooling. 
All  the  moisture  held  in  durance 

For  those  long  months,  seemed  outpouring - 

On  the  fields  and  plains  so  arid, 

And  the  long-expectant  people; 
On  the  dry  and  dusty  high  road, 

Came  the  blessed  rain,  so  needful; 
Filling  full  the  creeks  and  rivers, 

And  the  little  streamlets  glad'ning; 
Filling  full  the  gaping  fissures 

In  the  dry  earth,  open  standing. 

Soon  again  the  grass  was  green, 

Soon  were  heard  the  sweet  birds  singing; 
Here  and  there,  there  soon  were  seen 

Ploughmen  with  glad  hearts  returning: 


24  SOUNDS  OF  THE   PRAIRIE. 

Once  again  the  fine,  rich  soil, 

Moistened  by  refreshing  showers, 

Yields  its  fruitage  unto  toil ; 

And  the  prairies  blaze  with  flowers. 

"With  thankful  hearts  and  steady  hand, 

People  began  to  improve  their  homes; 
Determined  again  to  reclaim  the  land 

From  the  wild  herd  which  upon  it  roams. 
Cottages  neat,  and  pastures  wide, 

Flowering  gardens  and  stone  walls  grand, 
Young  orchards  and  fields  on  every  side, 

Pictures  of  comfort  and  thrift,  now  stand. 


THE  WALNUT  CREEK. 

AND,  like  a  bright  and  happy  dream, 
The  beautiful,  winding  Walnut  stream 

Flows  swiftly  along, 

"With  its  rippling  song, 
Where  the  sumac  bright,  and  willows  green, 
Bend  low  to  the  water's  silvery  sheen. 

Along  its  valley,  green  and  wide, 
Graze  flocks  and  herds  on  every  side ; 
And  at  eventide 

The  milkmaid's  song 

Is  wafted  along 

On  the  perfumed  air,  and  the  quail's  "bob-white"- 
Scenes  of  beauty,  and  sounds  of  delight. 


THE  WALNUT  CREEK.  25 

The  herdsman  whistles  contented  and  slow, 
As  homeward  he  hies,  in  the  sunset  glow; 

The  lowing  of  cows, 

As  they  slowly  browse 

Along  the  way  home,  and  the  bleating  of  sheep, 
All  lend  a  charm  and  rythm  deep 

To  the  happy  and  peaceful  scene; 
Where  a  feeling  of  hominess,  serene, 

Pervades  the  air 

So  soft  and  fair. 

Life  in  its  simplest,  happiest  mood,  » 

Is  life  indeed,  if  understood. 

Softly  the  wind  is  blowing — 
Gently  my  muse  is  rowing 

In  calmer,  smoother  seas; 
Neither  caring  nor  knowing 
Whither  she  is  going; 

Fanned  by  the  gentle  breeze, 

Sweet,  as  from  tropic  trees. 

4 


26  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIKIE. 


AUGUST. 

THE  summer's  almost  done ! 

And,  one  by  one, 

The  crops  are  gathered 

In  the  August  sun. 

The  stack  yard  is  complete; 

Beautiful,  and  replete 

With  long  ricks — brown  and  yellow- 

Of  hay  and  grain  so  sweet. 

The  melons  are  ripening, 

The  pumpkins  are  yellowing, 

The  fruit  is  mellowing 

In  the  golden  sun; 

The  corn  slowly  hardening 

Within  its  thick  covering — 

Nature  preparing 

For  frosts  soon  to  come. 

The  cricket  is  singing, 

The  earth  is  ringing 

With  insects  creaking 

In  great  delight. 

The  air  is  luscious 

With  fragrance  delicious 

Of  new-mown  hay; 

There  are  hints,  suspicious, 

Of  autumn,  in  the  shorter  day, 


THE   MEADOW  LARK.  27 

And  clear,  cool  night, 
Made  glad  by  the  chorus 
Beneath  us  and  o'er  us  — 
Tsip,  tsip,  tsip,  tsee-e-e-e-e, 
Te-reat,  te-reat,  te-re-e-e-e. 

With  repose  and  restfulness, 
Peace  and  thankfulness  — 
After  days  of  usefulness — 
All  nature  seems  imbued. 
The  soft  and  mellow  sunshine, 
And  the  cool  fresh  air,  combine 
Within  us  to  enshrine 
A  feeling  of  joy,  subdued. 


THE  MEADOW  LARK. 

0  HAPPY  and  free, 
And  full  of  glee, 
Is  thy  song  to  me, 

Sweet  meadow  lark ! 
As,  along  the  way, 
Thy  cheerful  lay, 
Like  a  sound  of  May, 

Doth  cheer  the  heart ! 

Always  the  same, 
Great  is  thy  fame, 
And  blest  thy  name, 
Sweet  meadow  lark ! 


28  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

Thy  glad  note  teems 
With  joy,  and  seems 
Part  of  the  sun's  bright  beams, 
Sweet  meadow  lark ! 


Thy  sole  ambition, 

And  intuition, 

Seem,  to  fill  the  mission 

Of  glad'ning  the  earth! 
0  that  we,  too, 
All  this  life  through, 
Might  help  to  woo 

Some  sad  heart  to  mirth ! 


THE  MIST. 

How  beautiful,  at  daybreak, 
To  see  the  mist  arise  — 

Roll  itself  up  like  a  curtain 
Bordering  the  skies. 


And  sometimes,  when  it's  forgotten 
To  roll  itself  up  in  time, 

The  sunshine,  catching  it  lingering, 
Glistens  each  particle  fine — 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS.  29 

Filling  the  air  with  gold  dust, 

And  a  glory  most  sublime ; 
Repaid  is  he  who  beholds  it 

For  getting  up  in  time. 

The  birds  are  gaily  twittering 

Their  welcome  to  the  sun; 
The  chickens  lustily  heralding 

That  the  day  is  begun. 

How  narrow  seems  the  horizon, 

Encircled  by  the  cloud 
Of  mist,  rolled  back  so  perfectly, 

Which  does  our  view  enshroud. 


But  the  sun  will  soon  dispel  it, 
As  for  centuries  it  has  done, 

Flooding  the  earth  with  his  glory, 
Widening  our  horizon. 


OLD-FASHIONED  FLOWERS. 

MORNING-GLORIES,  purple,  red,  white,  and  blue — 
Flowering  beauties  of  every  hue ! 
Each  morning  they  greet  me,  cheerful  and  bright, 
Each  day  giving  my  heart  new  delight. 


30  SOUNDS   OP  THE  PRAIKIE. 

Entwined  in  their  tendrils,  the  gay  Marigold, 
It  dark  red  and  yellow,  flaunting  and  bold, 
Blooms  cheerily  on,  though  the  splendor  of  morn 
ing 
Vanishes  quickly — evanescent  adorning. 

Close  by,  in  colors  radiant, 
A  bed  of  Four-o'clocks,  redolent, 
Its  fragrance  sheds  on  the  morning, 
Picture  of  beauty,  choice  and  rare ! 

Old-fashioned  flowers,  rare  and  sweet, 
Gaily  blooming  in  quiet  retreat ! 
Dew  on  the  grass — birds  in  the  air — 
Beauty  and  fragrance  everywhere ! 


THE  CAMP-FIRE  AT  NESS  CITY. 

SEPTEMBER  16,  1885. 

NOT  like  this,  twenty  years  ago, 

The  camp-fire  bright, 
Amid  friends,  and  peace  and  plenty 

Shed  its  light — 
But  on  the  tented  field, 

To  tired  and  hungry  men, 
'Twas  made  to  yield 

Some  little  comfort. 


THE  CAMP-FIRE  AT  NESS  CITY.  31 

Gloomily,  in  an  enemy's  land, 

Its  flickering  rays  shine  round; 
While,  upon  every  hand, 

The  accoutrements  of  war  are  found, 
And  tired  soldiers  stand, 

Or  lie  upon  the  hard  ground. 

I  can  see  them  now, 

After  a  long  and  weary  march, 
Through  drizzling  rain  and  snow, 

Under  the  heaven's  leaden  arch, 
Wearily  pitching  their  tents ; 

Each  striving  hard  to  go 
Beyond  his  comrade  in  brave  endurance. 

Tired,  hungry  and  cold, 

In  the  drear  November  night, 

Visions  of  home  unfold 

To  the  weary  soldier's  sight : 

Thoughts  of  the  cheerful  home-light, 

The  warm  supper  and  the  love-light 

In  loving  eyes  so  bright, 

Make  the  soldier,  bold,  , 

Weak  as  a  child : 

As  he  notes  the  dreariness, 

And  eats  his  hardened  fare, — 

Drinks  his  strong  black  coffee, 

And  wishes  he  were  there; 

And  then,  in  weariness, 

Throws  himself  on  the  ground  to  sleep 

And  dream  of  loved  ones  fair; 


32  SOUNDS   OF  THE   PRAIRIE. 

While  they  their  vigils  keep, 

In  offering  prayer 

That  God  their  soldier  spare. 

Yet,  sometimes,  steadier  shone  the  light 
Around  a  camp-fire  blazing  bright; 
And  cheerful  men  whistled  or  sang  — 
With  joyful  note  the  camp  ground  rang; 
Good  news  from  home,  or  new-found  hope 
That  soon  the  war  would  close,  awoke 
Their  almost  fainting  hearts;  and  then, 
Their  loved  homes  they  would  see  again. 

At  length,  the  last  hard  battle  fought, 
The  nation  freed  —  God's  purpose  wrought  - 
Each  one  homeward  took  his  way, 
Proud  that  the  right  at  last  had  sway. 
Home  to  love  and  friends  again, 
He  counted  not  his  hardships  vain; 
But  all  the  brighter  burned  the  flame 
Upon  the  altar  fire  of  home. 

All  honor  to  our  soldiers  brave, 

Who  risked  their  health  and  lives  to  save 

Our  country's  name 

From  treason's  shame ! 

And,  as  around  this  camp-fire  meet 

Comrades,  who  gladly  each  other  greet, 

Give  a  tear  and  a  memory  sweet 

To  those  who  life  itself  did  yield 

Upon  a  well-fought  battle  field. 


THE  LITTLE  SOD  HOUSE.  33 


THE  LITTLE  SOD  HOUSE. 

THE  little  sod  house  thatched  with  willows, 
Hanging  like  yellow-green  fringe ! 

The  soft,  thick  grass  for  a  matting, 

Doth  against  the  fine  Brussels  impinge. 

The  walls,  it  is  true,  are  ungainly, 
But  then  there  is  comfort  within ; 

The  fire  shines  as  bright,  burns  as  warmly, 
As  in  palace,  or  cottage,  or  inn. 

It's  deep  window  seats  bright  with  flowers, 
That  fragrance  and  beauty  out  cast; 

0,  many  the  glad,  happy  hours 

That  within  its  black  walls  have  been  passed ! 

In  the  earth,  on  the  earth,  of  the  earth ! 

Near  nature's  great  heart  are  we, 
When  we  gather  around  the  hearth 

Of  the  sod  house,  on  the  prairie  sea. 
5 


34  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 


COMPENSATION. 

THERE  is  compensation  for  every  ill, 
For  all  the  privations  that  seem  to  fill 

Our  cup  to  the  brim; 
If  we  are  patient,  and  wait  long  enough, 
Though  the  way  seem  rugged,  weary  and  rough, 

It  will  surely  come. 

To  the  dweller  on  dry  and  dusty  plain 
Come  visions  of  trees  and  golden  grain, 

Sweet  flowers  and  fruit. 
The  image,  by  contrast,  intensifies 
The  picture  dear  to  us ;  and  verifies 

The  truth  I  bruit. 

Terraced  gardens  and  ivy-green  walls, 
Ruined  castles  and  great  waterfalls, 

In  fancy,  are  ours. 
We  stand  'neath  the  shade  of  great  branching 

elms, 

Or  by  the  cool  waters  of  clear-flowing  streams, 
'Mid  fanciful  bowers. 

The  poor  man,  who  toils  for  his  daily  bread, 
In  a  cottage  resting  his  weary  head, 

Rests  sweetly  there ; 

Nor  envies  the  rich  man  his  feverish  hours, 
As  he  dreams  of  mortgages,  deeds  and  dowers, 

And  life's  fitful  care. 


PRESENTIMENT.  35 

The  mourner,  grieving  for  her  loved  ones  lost, 
Upon  a  sea  of  sorrow  tempest  tossed, 

Seems  almost  hopeless; 
Yet  the  waves  of  trouble  cease  to  flow, 
Higher  than  hope;  and  she's  brought  to  know 

And  love  the  helpless. 

To  those  who,  in  exile,  far  from  home 

And  well-known  friends,  are  obliged  to  roam, 

Friends  become  dearer; 

The  dearth  of  companionship,  the  heart  so  needs, 
Makes  one  live  in  the  books  he  reads, 

And  therefore  grow  wiser. 

So  with  all  grades  of  human  life; 
There  is,  for  all  its  weary  strife, 

Some  compensation  — 

Some  bright  spots  through  the  riven  cloud  — 
Some  extra-sense  with  which  endowed  — 

Sweet  consolation ! 


PRESENTIMENT. 

AH  !  why  do  teardrops  start  unbidden, 
And  long-drawn  sighs  the  bosom  heave, 

As  if  by  some  great  sorrow  riven, 
And  hope  had  forever  taken  leave. 


36  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

The  heart  seems  filled  with  boding  ill  — 
With  pity  for  itself  congealed; 

Like  some  great  harm  or  sudden  chill 
Had  come,  and  all  love's  fountains  sealed. 

O  then  it  is,  with  sudden  burst 

Of  realty,  there  dawns  upon 
Our  minds  the  thought,  that  e'en  the  worst 

That  happens  ere  our  life  be  run, 

Cannot  outlast  the  great  Beyond, 
Where  love  shall  not  be  filled  with  care, 

And  where  our  lives  shall  not  be  stunned 
By  storms  and  withering  despair. 


O  FIERCE  storm  king,  stay  thy  hand ! 
Blight  not  this  our  beauteous  land 
With  thy  desolating  breath — 
Bringing  naught  but  ice  and  death ; 
Gloat  not  o'er  our  helplessness  — 
Thou  art  conquer'r,  we  the  vanquished; 
Stay  thy  hand,  whose  ruthlessness, 
Long  has  joy  and  beauty  banished! 

Fierce  thy  reign,  and  unrelenting — 
~N"or  by  pain  nor  anguish  softened; 
O'er  our  prairies,  unrepenting, 
Thou  hast  man  and  beast  encoffined, 


STORM.  37 

In  mounds  of  thy  fierce,  crystalled  wrath; 

Stalking  through  these  plains,  unchallenged, 

taught  to  intercept  thy  path : 

Surely  thou  art  well  avenged 

For  all  the  joy,  or  warmth,  or  gladness, 

Earth  or  mortal  dared  to  feel, 

"When  by  south  winds  moved  from  sadness, 

And  from  tempests  that  congeal 

All  the  pulsing  heart  of  nature, 

Setting  there  its  icy  seal. 

Thou,  with  all  a  north  king's  hauteur, 

Makest  us  thy  power  feel, 

And  to  pray  for  thy  departure  — 

Cold,  thy  biting  blades,  as  steel. 

Though  thou  givest  us  naught  of  pleasure, 
In  thy  fierce  and  wild  career, 
Spare,  oh  spare,  our  best-loved  treasure  — 
The  lives  of  friends  we  hold  so  dear ! 
Blight  them  not  by  thy  cold  kisses — 
"Woo  them  not  with  moaning  wind; 
Fold  them  not  in  thy  embraces, 
Leaving  e'en  no  trace  behind ! 
"We  can  win  no  promise  from  thee  — 
Thou  dost  fill  the  heart  with  dread, 
Lest,  e'en  now,  thy  cruelty 
Takest  some  we  love  as  dead! 


Pity !  0  our  hearts  are  rended 
By  this  tempest,  long  unended! 


38  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIKIE. 

God  of  the  winds,  of  wave,  and  sea, 
Speak,  oh  speak,  and  comfort  me ! 
From  Thy  throne  above,  on  high, 
Let  Thy  tender,  loving  eye 
Rest  on  us  poor,  tempest-tossed 
Pilgrims  on  life's  sea  embossed; 
Let  Thy  gentle,  loving  voice 
Speak  the  word  that  rules  all  choice 
Of  wind  or  storm,  and  quiets  them ; 
So  our  frail  barks  may  ever  stem 
Both  physical  and  mental  storms, 
That  cross  our  path  in  countless  swarms, 
Filling  the  soul  with  dread  alarm, 
Lest  those  we  love  may  come  to  harm ! 
And  when,  of  storms  we've  faced  the  last- 
Life's  dangerous  voyage  safely  past — 
O  then,  at  last,  most  peacefully, 
Bring  us  all  to  heaven  and  Thee ! 


SUNSHINE. 

JANUARY  19,  1886. 

ONCE  more  we  hail  the  sunshine ! 

The  tempest  at  last  is  passed; 
After  weeks  of  weary  waiting, 

The  light  has  come  at  last. 

Earth  revels  in  the  sunbeams 
Which  warm  her  frozen  cheek - 

Kissing  the  icy  teardrops, 
And  wooing  her  to  speak. 


A  THAW.  39 


Our  hearts,  too,  ope  with  gladness 

To  let  the  sunlight  in, 
For  lone,  and  dark,  and  gloomy 

These  stormy  days  have  been — 

Filled  full  of  apprehension, 
For  the  suffering  of  those 

"Who  may,  from  cold  and  hunger, 
Die  in  these  fearful  snows; 

Or  those  compelled  by  pressure 
Of  things  of  life  and  death 

To  face  the  dreaded  current — 
The  storm  king's  icy  breath. 

But  now,  at  last,  'tis  over, 

And  all  breathe  free  once  more; 

Whatever  harm  is  wrought, 
The  sun  shines  as  before. 


A  THAW. 

No  longer  are  our  windows  frosted  o'er 
With  pleasant  pictures,  delicate  and  hoar, 
"Of  ferns  and  flowers  of  the  summer  time, 
And  diamond  crystals  wrought  in  jeweled  rime 
By  skillful  artist,  through  the  long  night-time; 
And  now  we  view  the  outer  world  again, 
And  watch  the  goings  of  our  fellow-men, 
Who  have,  like  us,  been  housed  in  winter  den, 


40  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

But  now,  no  longer  snow-bound,  go  abroad, 
As  is  their  custom — like  the  ground-hog,  thawed 
From  out  his  winter  quarters,  being  wooed 
By  spring-like  breezes — out  in  search  of  food; 
Right  gladly,  too,  they  once  again  exhume 
Themselves,  their  wonted  business  to  resume. 


The  great  white  banks,  so  lately  frozen  hard, 
Are  treacherous  now — and  here  and  there  the 

sward 

Is  bare  once  more.     The  distant  hills  loom  high, 
In  outline  black  and  white,  against  the  sky; 
And  on  the  moistened  breezes  sounds  traverse 
Great  distances  with  ease.     One  hears  the  terse 
"Whoa" — as  the  neighboring  farmer  checks  his 

steed, 

That  long  restrained,  would  gladly  try  his  speed; 
A  murmur,  indistinct,  comes  from  the  town; 
And  bark  of  dogs  that  chase  the  rabbit  down ; 
And  joyously  and  clear,  from  far  and  near, 
The  lusty  crowing  of  the  chanticleer; 
The  children,  long  kept  indoors  by  the  cold, 
Now  fill  the  air  with  cheerful  shouts,  and  mold 
The  melting  snow  in  forms;  the  distant  lowing 
Of  cattle  impatient  for  their  evening  meal; 
Or  to  her  calf  the  mother-cow's  soft  mooing; 
The  rattle  of  the  wagon's  heavy  wheel. 
These  sounds — a  sense  of  quickened  life  bestow 
ing— 
Borne  on  the  glad,  moist  air,  upon  us  steal; 


A  WINDY  DAY.  41 

Commingled,  too,  with  many  a  laughing  peal, 
Like  so  many  tokens  of  all  human  weal. 


TO 


YOUR'S  the  first  eyes  my  little  songs  did  meet ; 
Your  words  of  praise  and  appreciation  sweet 
The  first  my  eager,  anxious  ears  did  greet, 
As  I  waited  in  my  quiet  country-seat. 
As  the  years  pass  by,  like  winged  horses  fleet, 
May  they  all  good  things  bring  you,  and  complete 
The  measure  of  your  lives  with  blessings  meet. 
And  when  at  last,  like  time,  you  too  have  passed 
Beyond  life's  care  and  work,  may  there  be  cast 
A  glittering  crown' upon  your  heads  at  last. 
Accept,  kind  friends,  for  your  generous  praise, 
My  warmest  thanks.     My  ambition  it  did  raise 
To  hope  I  yet  may  walk  Promethean  ways, 
And  comfort  mortals  by  my  simple  lays. 


A  WIKDY  DAY. 

"'Blow,'   did    you    say?     Now    you're   mighty 

right!" 

And  the  farmer  pulls  his  hat  on  tight, 
As  he  struggles  hard  to  unload  the  hay 
He  had  promised  and  brought  to  town  to-day. 
6 


42  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

And,  "  O  dear  me !  what  a  dreadful  plight 
My  bangs  are  in ! "  says  the  beauty  bright, 
As  she  looks  in  the  glass,  like  a  laughing  sprite, 
And  declares  that  she  "Never  saw  such  a  fright." 

"  There,  now,  goes  my  blue  umberellar!" 
And,  watching  it,  the  old  lady  falls  down  a  cellar. 
It  keeps  bravely  on  till  it  strikes  a  poor  "feller" 
Hard  in  the  face ;  and  he'd  like  to  tell  her, 
In  accents  not  mild,  "  To  keep  her  umbrella, 
Next  time,  at  home  when  the  wind  does  blow; 
For  'tisn't  fair  for  umbrellas  to  go 
Sailing  along  through  the  streets  so." 

"Heigh-ho,  my  hat!"  and  the  dignified, 

Portly  man,  with  a  rapid  stride, 

Seeks  to  follow — but  woe  betide 

His  dignity;  for,  side  by  side, 

He  and  the  hat  together  roll 

Over  and  over,  toward  the  north  pole; 

He  seeking  to  catch  it  at  every  stretch, 

But  a  new  gust  of  wind  takes  it  out  of  his  reach. 

Breathless  and  angry  he  gives  up  the  chase, 

For  with  such  a  wind  he  can  never  keep  pace. 

Other  hats   have  a  lop-eared   expression   that's 

droll; 

As  if,  of  a  sudden,  they'd  lost  all  control 
Of  themselves ;  and  their  owners  look  a  sight  to 

condole; 
Just  like  some  misfortune  had  happened  their 

soul, 


THE  LOST  NAREATIVE.  43 

Or  stocks  had  gone  down  of  a  sudden,  and  broke 
The  wheels  of  their  business  up,  spoke  by  spoke. 
Coat  tails  assert  themselves,  standing  out 

straight — 

Whether  old-fashioned,  or  new  cut  and  late — 
Surely  things  are  in  a  very  mixed  state. 


A  housewife  is  battling  with  clothes  on  the  line, 
While  still  in  the  suds  I've  had  to  keep  mine. 
Late  home  to  dinner,  you'll  find  a  cross  mate, 
For  nerves  will  succumb,  at  last,  to  such  fate. 
Papers  and  boxes  fly  helter  and  skelter, 
While  doors  and  windows  keep  up  such  a  clatter 
One  grows  cross,  and  yet  wonders  what  is  the 
matter. 


THE  LOST  "NARRATIVE." 

TO . 

LETTEKS  I've  written,  long  and  short — 
Letters  of  love  and  of  retort; 
Letters  of  friendship,  and  all  sort; 
Letters  to  South  and  letters  to  Nort; 
Letters  to  East  and  letters  to  West  — 
But  never,  no  never,  'mong  all  the  rest, 
Was  accused  of  giving,  to  those  I  love  best — 
Not  even  to  those  I  called  but  friend  — 
That  part  of  my  time  you  call  the  "tail-end." 


44  SOUNDS  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

Time  flies!  and,  like  Tarn  O'Shanter's  mare, 

Is  tailless  long  ere  one's  aware, 

Or  reaches  the  running  water,  where 

The  witches  of  hurry  and  of  care 

Cease  annoying  us,  and  stare; 

And  there  is  only  left  us,  there, 

The  bare  escape;  while,  everywhere, 

Duties  unpleasant  and  duties  fair, 

Burdens  heavy  and  hard  to  bear, 

Others  pleasing  and  light  as  air, 

Crowd,  unfinished,  plucking  Time's  hair; 

Till  we,  in  utter  and  blank  despair, 

Wonder  if  ever,  or  anywhere, 

Before  was  seen  such  a  tailless  mare 

As  the  flying  steed,  so  bald  and  bare, 

"Which  the  penniless  writer  rides  with  care. 


So  accuse  me  not  of  giving  to  you 

The  narrative  to  which  I've  lost  all  clue : 

I've  plucked  from  Time's  forelock  some  moments 

new — 

In  which  I  could  write  some  sentiments  true ; 
Though  poorly  expressed,  I  hope  that  a  few 
May  revive  my  true  image,  in  your  heart,  anew. 
That  blessings  on  earth  and  in  heaven  accrue 
To  your  share,  is  the  wish  of — adieu. 


EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

"How  long  we  live,  not  years,  but  actions,  tell." 

— Heath. 

"That  man  lives  twice  who  lives  the  first  life  well." 

— Tennyson. 

THE  POET'S  DESTINY. 

'Tis  the  poet's  forte  to  cheer; 
And  only  in  this  sphere, 
Is  his  life  at  all  in  gear : 

To  make  men  nobler,  better; 
And  thus  fulfill  the  letter 
Of  genius,  without  fetter : 

To  make  men  braver,  truer; 
And  fit  them  to  endure 
Temptations  which  allure. 

The  earth,  the  air,  and  sky, 
All,  are  lessons,  if  we  try 
To  understand,  as  we  go  by : 

Lessons  which  will  work  as  leaven, 
While  by  earth  storms  we  are  driven  — 
Leading  upward  unto  heaven. 


46  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Beauty  on  the  mountain  steep — 
Beauty  in  the  fountain  deep  — 
Beauty  from  the  stars  doth  peep. 

'Tis  the  poet's  pleasant  task 
All  their  beauties  to  unmask, 
And  in  bold,  clear  light  to  bask; 

Leading  with  him,  by  his  zeal, 
All  the  nations;  and  to  heal 
Many,  from  despair's  dark  seal. 


LIFE. 

0  LIFE  !  how  bitter-sweet  thou  art ! 

What  a  shaded  picture ! 

What  a  strange  admixture 
Does  ebb  and  flow  within  each  heart  I 

What  restless  longing  after  pleasure, 
That  ever  eludes  our  grasp : 
How  harshly,  on  our  natures,  rasp 

Our  many  sad  and  grievous  failures ! 

For  disappointments  sear  the  soul, 
And  callous  all  our  nature, 
Till,  in  each  distorted  feature, 

Life  seems  a  rag-a-tattered  scroll 


LIFE.  47 

That's  hardly  worth  unrolling, 
Unless  we  look  beyond  ourselves 
To  worthier  object  than  ourselves  — 

Joy  thus  unfolding. 

The  selfish  heart  knows  little  bliss ; 

For  if,  for  its  own  pleasure, 

And  life  of  idle  leisure, 
It  lives — bliss  is  not  gained  like  this. 

If,  from  the  bitter,  some  sweet  one  would  gain, 
He  must  strive  for  the  good  of  others, 
As  if  all  men  were  his  brothers, 

And,  in  this  way,  lasting  joy  attain. 

He  must  soothe  the  ever-maddening  pain  — 

The  restless,  fevered  longing, 

Through  so  many  hearts  now  thronging — 
Of  the  anxious,  overburdened  brain; 

Must  help  the  poor  or  nurse  the  suffering; 

Teach  the  rich  how  best  to  use 

Their  wealth;  and  thus  infuse 
Into  each  life  desires  ennobling. 

In  this  way,  surely,  may  be  brought, 
Out  of  life's  bitter,  the  sweet — 
Some  pleasures  which  are  meet, 

To  make  life  glad,  and  worth  the  thought. 


48  EDDIES  OF  MEMOKY. 


A  VOICE. 

ONCE  I  dreamed  of  flying, 
And  a  voice  kept  crying, 
"Without  cease  or  tiring, 
"Higher,  higher,  higher!" 

Yes,  higher,  higher, 
We  should  aspire, 
Till  gleams  the  fire 
From  the  golden  gate; 

And  the  angels  song, 

From  the  white-robed  throng, 

Is  wafted  along 

To  our  raptured  state. 

And  nevermore, 
•  On  that  shining  shore, 
Will  we  deplore 
The  effort  we  make. 


THE  DEAR  OLD  HYMK 

ONE  of  the  sweetest  memories,  mother,  dear, 

Of  all  my  childhood  days  — 

Pure  as  the  moon's  soft  rays, 

While  traveling  weary  ways, 
Is  of  seeing  you  sit  sewing,  near 


THE  DEAR  OLD  HYMN.  49 

The  window;  while,  in  voice  so.  clear, 
And  low,  and  sweet,  you  sang  the  dear, 
Familiar  hymn  you  loved  so  well. 
I  can  find  no  words  to  tell 
The  thoughts  that  in  my  bosom  swell, 
When,  far  away  from  thee,  I  hear 
The  same  old  hymn,  to  me  so  dear. 

"O  Thou  Fount  of  ev'ry  blessing"— 
Is  the  soft  refrain; 
I  can  sing  no  further, 
For  tears  that  fall  like  rain; 
For,  thronging,  comes  a  train 
Of  thoughts  that  are  both  pain 
And  pleasure. 

"Never  let  me  wander  from  Thee" — 

I  try  to  sing, 

But  cannot  bring 

The  words  to  utterance: 
So  oft  I've  wandered,  and  so  far — 
So  far  from  thee,  my  guiding  star — 
My  gentle  mother !  who,  with  care, 
Did  guide  and  shield  from  ev'ry  snare ; 
And  from  whose  lips,  so  oft,  I've  heard 
The  low,  sweet  song  of — "By  Thy  "Word 
And  Spirit  guide  me."     And  I  long, 
Again,  to  hear  you  sing  that  song. 

Thou  wert  more  than  mother  to  me — 
Sweet  companion,  sister,  friend ! 

7 


50  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

And  to  all  my  girlish  fancy 
A  sympathetic  ear  did  lend. 
And  thy  gentle  hands  enrobed  me 
For  my  haptism,  and  my  bridal  day. 
And  twice,  when  death  almost  did  lay 
His  icy  hand  upon  me,  'twas  thou 
Who  nursed  me  back  to  life  again ; 
And,  from  my  earliest  memory, 
.    Thou  hast  lovingly  forged  the  golden  chain 
Which  binds  me  close  to  thee.     Our  love 
Is  eternal!     "Father,  guide  us,  then, 
Till  we  reach  Thy  courts  above." 


CONTENTMENT. 

0  BLEST  content, 

I  woo,  I  covet  thee ! 
What  charm  is  lent 

By  thy  sweet  mystery, 
To  banish  care ! 

What  peace  and  joy 

Thou  bringest  us!  Pure  gold, 
Without  alloy, 

And  pleasures  manifold, 
Thou  art  to  all ! 

Spirit,  sweet  and  rare, 
Thy  help  we  invocate, 


TO  MARIA  AND  MARY  H.  M .  51 

Make  life  seem  fair ! 
Our  natures  renovate, 
Our  discontent! 


TO  MARIA  AND  MARY  H.  M- 


O  THOSE  glad  and  happy  days  of  childhood, 

When,  free  from  toil  and  care, 
We  wandered  in  the  quiet  wildwood, 

Or  strayed  in  fields  so  fair; 

Gathering  the  early,  fragrant  spring  flowers; 

Swinging  in  the  grape-vine  swing; 
Seeking  the  cosiest,  shadiest  bowers; 

Listening  to  the  brown  thrush  sing ! 

Never  so  sweet  have  been  the  flowers 
From  green-house  or  garden  rare, 

As  those  we  gathered  after  showers  — 
Spring-beauties  and  blue-bells  fair. 

And  oft  we  wished  our  hands  were  larger, 
That  more  we  might  carry  home ; 

While  already  every  vase  and  pitcher, 
Was  like  a  flowery  dome. 

Do  you  remember  how  we  could  hear 

The  voice  of  old  Cooper's  Falls, 
Roaring  and  rushing,  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 

Over  its  rocky  walls? 


52  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Later,  in  the  golden,  autumn  sun, 
The  brown  hazel  nuts  we'd  gather 

Along  the  pasture  fence,  which  run 
West  from  the  village  border. 

• 

And  after  the  frost,  the  walnuts,  dun, 

Were  added  to  our  measure; 
With  housewifely  instinct  we  would  sum 

'Up  all  our  winter  treasure. 

And  then,  when  the  village  school  began, 
We  brought  the  same  glad  zest 

Into  our  studies,  with  which  we  ran 
Upon  the  nutting  quest. 

At  recess,  we'd  play  at  "Hide  and  seek," 
Or  "Blackman's"  boisterous  game; 

With  quickened  pulses  and  rosy  cheek, 
Our  "base"  we  would  regain. 

What  glowing  pictures  we  made,  so  fine, 
Of  what  we'd  have  when  grown ; 

And  sometimes  we'd  draw,  in  bold  outline, 
A  palace  for  bur  home. 

Ah!  dainty,  dreamy  little  maidens! 

How  little  did  we  know 
Of  all  in  life  that  clogs  and  saddens  — 

Of  its  vain  pomp  and  show. 


GRANT.  53 

How  few,  of  our  many  air  castles, 

We  ever  realized! 
And  cottages,  more  than  castles, 

In  after  years  we  prized. 

But  if  we  could  bring  the  earnestness 

To  bear  upon  life's  care, 
"We  gave  to  our  childish  playfulness, 

'Twould  all  of  it  outwear. 


GRANT,  our  loved  hero,  dead! 
With  bated  breath,  we  read, 
And  then,  with  softer  tread, 

Pursued  our  daily  care. 
The  silent  man  of  deed, 
Who  knew  his  country's  need, 
At  last,  from  suffering  freed, 

Rests  from  all  earthly  care. 

O  noble  spirit,  rare! 

What  joy  in  the  realms  of  the  air, 

At  the  accession,  fair, 

Of  thy  dear  company. 
Great  among  men  thou  wert, 
And  great  shall  be  thy  part 
In  the  deep  fountain  heart 

Of  the  angelic  symphony. 


54  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Thou  wert  our  nation's  pride ! 
All  over  land  and  tide, 
Honor,  on  every  side, 

And  love,  awaited  thee : 
For  was  it  not  to  thee 
"We  owed  our  liberty? 
Our  nation's  unity, 

To  thy  great  utility? 

The  power  of  his  life, 
With  nohle  deeds  so  rife, 
In  all  the  scenes  of  strife 

Through  which  he  bravely  passed, 
Is  felt  by  every  one ; 
And  he,  his  journey  run, 
Bearing  life's  scorching  sun, 

Useful  to  the  last. 


^COMMENCEMENT  AT  O A. 

IT  is  eighteen  years 

Since  the  hopes  and  fears, 
Of  my  last  commencement  day ; 

Yet  I  seem  again 

To  breathe,  as  then, 
The  sweet  June  roses  gay; 

As  their  fragrance  sweet 
All  our  senses  greet, 
In  delicious  intoxication; 


COMMENCEMENT  AT  0 A.  55 

And  wafted  along, 
Through  the  joyous  throng, 
Are  the  voices  of  friends  and  relation. 

"Wreaths  and  flowers 

Entwine,  like  bowers, 
Each  column  and  window  high; 

And  in  each  breast 

Is  the  anxious  zest 
Of  a  great  occasion  nigh. 

How  fearful  we  feel 

Lest  we  should  fail 
To  meet  our  friends'  expectation; 

And  when,  at  last, 

Our  effort  passed, 
How  sweet  their  commendation. 

The  conqueror  great, 

Or  man  of  state, 
Ne'er  felt  the  exultation ; 

And  ne'er  attained 

The  bliss  we  gained, 
From  friends'  appreciation. 

And  then  we  pressed 

Hands  we  loved  best, 
In  silent  anguish  parting; 

One  going  here, 

Another  there — 
Each  to  his  life  work  starting. 


56  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

I  should  like  to  know, 

As  old  they  grow, 
What  each  one's  fate  has  been ; 

And  whether,  or  not, 

The  true  life-thought 
Of  each  has  been  wrought  in ; 

And  whether,  at  last, 
When  life's  school  is  past, 

We  shall  hear  our  Father  say : 
"Well  done!  Well  done! 
Thou  hast  laurels  won!" 

At  the  great  commencement  day. 


TO   CLARA  B 


DEAR  CLARA:  We  cannot  see  why,  all  at  once, 

Thou  should'st  be  so  bereft; 
Of  all  thy  loved  and  cherished  ones, 

So  very  few  are  left. 

I  knew  thee  when  a  blue-eyed  child, 

Happy  and  free  as  a  bird; 
As  a  maiden,  gentle  voiced  and  mild, 

Thy  ringing  laugh  oft  heard. 

First  was  taken  thy  gentle  sister — 

Pure  as  a  lily  white ; 
And  though  you  mourned,  and  sadly  missed  her, 

This  first  grief  was  but  light, 


TO  CLARA  B .  57 

Compared  to  those  thou  hast  endured ; 

For  then,  thy  tender  mother, 
In  the  midst  of  her  own  grief,  soothed  and  cured 

The  grief  of  every  other. 

How  much  she  was  beloved  by  all ! 

Possessed  of  the  rare  gift 
Of  helping  up  the  weak,  who  fall — 

The  saddened  to  uplift! 

Patient,  pure,  loving,  and  kind! 

A  truly  noble  type 
Of  a  thoughtful,  gentle,  womanly  mind, 

By  Christian  faith  made  ripe. 

But  just  when  most  her  company  you  prized, 

And  her  sweet  counsel  sought, 
She,  too,  was  taken;  and  you  realized 

The  pain  that  loving  brought. 

And  then,  ere  many  months  had  passed, 

Father,  brother,  and  child 
Were  summoned  —  and  you  felt  the  icy  blast 

Of  grief,  stormy  and  wild. 

No  loving  mother,  then,  to  soothe 

Thy  bitter,  sobbing  grief! 
No  father  this  rough  path  to  smooth ! 

Nor  yet  the  sweet  relief 
8 


58  EDDIES   OF  MEMORY. 

Of  little  hands  at  thy  sad  heart, 

To  woo  thee  to  forget 
Thy  sore  bereavements,  and  to  start 

A  hope  to  live  for  yet! 

Yes,  surely,  sad  has  been  thy  lot,  4 

And  sore  thy  chastening; 
Thou  couldst  not  have  borne  it  all,  hadst  not 

Thou  sought  God's  strengthening. 

As,  out  of  the  rude  block  of  stone, 

Thy  skillful  fingers  bring 
Beauty  and  form,  from  these  alone, 

By  cutting  and  chiseling — 

So  the  Great  Artist  shapes  our  lives, 

"Rough-hewing"  to  His  will, 
Till  fit  our  souls  for  heaven's  archives; 

Then  He'll  bid  us,  "  Peace!  be  still." 


y(  PATER,  SALUTAMUS! 

JUNE  6, 1885. 

JUST  sixty  years  have  passed  away, 
Since  first  beheld  the  light  of  day 

Our  father  dear. 

How  lightly  time  has  touched  his  brow ! 
How  little  wrinkled,  even  now, 

His  placid  feature ! 


PATER,  SALUTAMUS!  59 

Yet  life  to  him  has  been  no  play, 
But  full  of  endeavor  to  allay 

His  fellows'  pain. 
For  this  he's  toiled  early  and  late; 
For  this,  indifferent  to  fate 

And  worldly  gain. 

How  many,  many  will  bless  thy  skill  ? 
Thy  lion  heart,  thy  rousing  will, 

"Which  nobly  fought 
The  fell  disease,  the  racking  pain ! 
New  modes  of  healing  to  attain 

He's  ever  sought. 

Though  not  in  this  alone  we're  blest : 
Nature  gave  him  a  rich  bequest — 

A  heart  with  treasure  fraught. 
Though  large  the  place  assigned  his  art, 
Each  of  us  feels  we  have  a  part 

In  his  life  thought. 

Wife,  children,  children's  children,  all, 
The  old  and  young,  the  large  and  small, 

Receive  his  tender  care. 
Noble,  generous,  gifted!     Proud 
Are  we  to  love  and  honor  thee !    Endowed 

With  gifts  most  rare. 

Thou,  too,  wert  blest;  for  by  thy  side 
Has  closely  walked,  whate'er  betide, 
So  mild  and  kind, 


60  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Our  gentle  mother;  ever  near, 
To  help,  inspire,  comfort  and  cheer 
Thy  burdened  mind. 

May  years  be  given  thee  on  earth ;        | 
May  cheery  friends  around  thy  hearth 

Make  glad  thy  soul ; 
And  when  our  Father  calls  thee  home, 
May  we,  too,  hear  the  welcome  "  Come ! " 

And  reach  the  goal. 

"We  gather  round  this  board,  to-day, 
With  happy  hearts  that  we  can  say 

"We  are  all  here — 
Father,  mother,  sister,  brother; 
With  joy,  again  we  greet  each  other, 

From  far  and  near. 

Each  brings  some  token  of  his  love — 
Each  tries  his  high  esteem  to  prove; 

And,  with  the  rest, 
Accept  this  tribute  from  the  pen 

Of  your  Celeste.  — 


THE  SABBATH. 

SWEET  Sabbath  morn !  how  bright  thou  dawnest- 

Night's  curtain  furled ! 
What  comfort,  peace,  and  rest,  thou  bringest 

The  tired  world ! 


THE  SABBATH.  61 

Sweet  Sabbath  bells  ring  out  for  joy, 

In  pleasant  chimes; 
Their  joyous  peals  bring  thoughts,  to  enjoy, 

Of  olden  times : 

When  with  sweet,  old-fashioned  roses 
Entwined  in  hat  and  hai,r, 

A  little  girl's  hand  reposes 
In  that  of  her  father  dear, 
As  they  walk  to  the  village  church. 

The  day  is  radiant  and  bright, 

The  air  with  fragrance  ladened; 
The  sun  gives  a  steadier  light — 

Nature's  great  heart  is  burdened 

"With  joy  it  throbs  to  express, 

Yet  keeps  its  glories  subdued, 

This  calm,  sweet  day  of  rest; 
Earth,  air  and  sky  seem  imbued 

With  reverence,  and  blest 

With  brightness  and  repose. 

Who  of  us  does  not  remember 

Many  such  Sabbaths  as  this? 
Our  young  hearts,  receptive  and  tender; 

When  life  itself  seemed  bliss  — 

Our  hope  so  strong  and  bright. 

Years  have  dulled  the  brightness 
Of  this  world's  plans  and  hopes, 


62  EDDIES   OF  MEMORY. 

And  taken  somewhat  of  the  lightness 
From  our  hearts — as  down  life's  slopes 
We  slowly,  surely  tread. 

But,  to  all  our  cares  and  fears, 
Conies  the  sweet  Sabbath  rest ; 

"With  its  surcease  from  toil,  it  rears 
Strength  in  our  tired  breast. 
God  grant  us  rest  at  last ! 


NOBODY  REALLY  CARES. 

Is  life  so  cold  and  selfish, 

So  full  of  cynic  bears  ? 
Is  human  nature  elfish, 

That  nobody  really  cares 
If  our  hearts  are  slowly  breaking, 

And  unanswered  are  our  prayers  ? 

Is  there  no  true  heart,  loving, 
That  kindly  our  sorrows  shares  ? 

JTo  proffered  help,  thus  proving 
That  somebody  really  cares  ? 

Then  dark,  indeed,  is  our  pathway; 
Despair  comes  unawares ! 

Has  no  one  learned  the  lesson, 
In  all  this  wide  world  through, 

Christ  taught — "  To  love  each  other, 
As  I  have  loved  you  ? " 


TO  ESTHER  .  63 

Ah !  this  would  soothe  our  anguish, 
And  our  heart's  strength  renew. 

Is  there  not  within  ourselves, 

Some  throb  of  tenderness, 
Which  many  times  impels 

To  deeds  of  generousness  ? 
Do  we  not  really  care 

If  a  friend  is  in  distress  ? 

Then  rid  yourself  of  the  thought, 

"Nobody  really  cares;" 
Love's  choicest  gifts  are  brought 

To  him  who  nobly  bears 
The  ill  as  well  as  good  of  life  — 

And  somebody  really  cares. 


TO  ESTHER 

A  SONNET. 


TRULY  noble  and  rare 
Is  thy  gentle  care, 
And  life  of  sacrifice 

For  father  and  brothers  dear. 

Thy  goodness,  like  a  surplice, 

Is  thrown  around  all; 

Thy  good  deeds,  like  an  orison 

Or  benediction,  fall 

Upon  all  who  are  near. 

Wide  is  thy  horizon, 


EDDIES   OF  MEMORY. 


When  a  field  of  good  thou  seekest; 
Unto  the  poor  and  suffering 
A  helping  hand  thou  richest; 
But  brightest,  thy  home  offering. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

UPON  THE  DOUBLE  WEDDING  OF  JENNIE  AND  MAMIE  F 

GOOD  luck !  good  luck,  all  this  life  through, 
To  those  who,  under  the  magic  horse-shoe — 

With  its  "  power  to  charm 

Away  all  harm"  — 

Stood  arm  in  arm ! 
May  their  lives  he  fair 
As  the  blonde's  fair  hair, 
Deep  and  rich  as  the  brunette's  eyes; 

Gay  as  each  guest, 

And  full  of  zest; 
Pure  as  the  azure  blue  skies. 
Happy  their  home — 
May  they  never  roam 
Away  from  kindred  and  friends ; 

May  peace  surround, 

And  love  abound, 
May  every  charm  which  lends 

Lustre  and  beauty, 

Unto  life's  duty, 
In  the  sweet  home-life  be  theirs : 

Patience  and  gentleness, 

Wisdom  and  holiness, 


THE  POET'S  CONFUSION.  65 

Guiding  them  safely  through  cares ; 

And  when,  at  last, 

Life's  safely  past, 
And  eternity  breaks  on  the  soul, 

Enjoy  evermore, 

On  the  beautiful  shore, 
Love,  home,  and  heaven,  their  goal. 


THE  POET'S  CONFUSION. 

WHERE  are  all  the  fancies 

That  sometimes  come  unbidden? 
Now  I  would  summon  them, 

They  all  have  gone  and  hidden. 

Neither  plan  nor  harmony 

Has  my  mind — but,  void 
Of  all  shape  and  symmetry, 

Imagination  toyed, 

Idly,  with  this  and  that; 

Darting  here  and  yonder, 
Like  a  butterfly  at  play, 

With  time  and  sweets  to  squander. 

O  come,  my  Muse,  do  not 
Play  hide-and-seek  with  me! 

And  I'll  all  things  else  forsake, 
And  meekly  follow  thee 


66  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Whithersoe'er  thou  leadest — 
To  the  realms  of  fancy  fair, 

To  the  highest  mountain  air, 
Or  the  depths  of  dark  despair : 

Only  lead  thou  steadily, 
Boldly  and  unflinchingly, 

And  I'll  be  thy  true  disciple 
Most  willingly ! 


COW  BELLS. 

INSCRIBED  TO  J.  H.  B. 

ONE  sound,  more  than  all  others, 

Touches  memory's  bell, 
Bringing  thoughts  of  sweet-brier  and  clovers, 

Violets  and  asphodel: 

The  slow  ting-ling  of  the  cow  bells 
Brings  pictures  of  flowery  meads; 

Visions  of  lanes  and  shady  dells, 
Cool  streams  and  flowing  reeds. 

As  I  sit  in  my  home  on  the  prairie, 
With  half-closed  eyes,  and  hear 

The  measured  sound,  and  cheery, 
It  brings  the  past  so  near : 

A  child  again,  I  wander 

Through  green  and  shady  nook, 

Or  through  the  briers  clamber, 
Along  the  rippling  brook, 


COW  BELLS.  67 

Hunting  berries  and  fishing, 

With  bucket,  bait,  and  hook; 
Under  the  tall  tress  resting — 

Beading  our  choicest  book; 

While,  now  and  then,  the  stillness 

Is  broken  by  the  sound 
Of  tinkling  bells  in  the  distance  — 

Then  quiet  all  around. 

And  occasionally  the  plashing 

Of  some  bird  or  twig,  apart, 
In  the  cool  water  dropping. 

Causes  one  to  start. 

As  later,  we  homeward  go, 

At  nearly  the  close  of  day, 
The  cows,  soft  eyed  and  slow, 

We  drive  o'er  the  woodland  way, 

Through  long  lanes,  green  and  shady  — 

The  western  sky  aglow; 
Mother  has  supper  ready, 

And  we  are  ready,  too. 

So,  now,  when  I  hear  the  measure, 

The  ting-ling,  ting-ling  slow, 
The  cows  coming  home  from  the  pasture, 

Backward  my  fancies  go — 


68  EDDIES   OF  MEMORY. 

To  the  pleasant  rambles  of  childhood, 
My  brother  and  I  used  to  gain, 

Along  the  creek  in  the  wild  wood — 
Home  again  through  the  lane. 


OCTOBER. 

COOLER  are  the  days, 

And  pleasanter ; 
Softer  the  sun's  rays, 

And  yellower; 
No  longer  the  bright  blaze, 
But  a  quiet  restful  haze, 
O'er  all  nature,  strays. 
Ripened  is  the  maize, 

And  perfected; 
The  farmers  go  their  ways 

Gathering  it; 

Bringing  the  pumpkins  yellow, 
And  the  fruit  so  mellow; 
Breaking  up  the  fallow. 

Happy  autumn  days, 

How  I  love  you ! 
Busy  country  ways, 

I  sing  of  you ! 
And  on  the  farm,  at  night, 
Around  the  fireside  bright, 
A  picture  greets  the  sight: 


A  DREAM.  69 

The  father,  with  his  paper, 

Sits  reading  it; 
The  daughter,  with  fingers  taper, 

Crocheting  mits; 
The  mother,  with  her,  knitting, 
Her  loved  ones  is  refitting 
For  winter's  winds  so  biting. 

The  son,  with  slate  and  pencil, 

Is  figuring; 
And,  fit  for  an  artist's  stencil, 

The  cat,  purring; 
Picture  of  comfort  and  rest, 
In  this  quiet  country  nest — 
The  home  we  love  the  best. 
Simplicity  and  repose 
Such  pictures  tell; 
No  matter  how  the  world  goes, 

This  part  is  well : 
And  while  the  frost  king  bold, 
In  icy  clutch,  does  hold 
The  family  close,  behold 
What  love  it  doth  enfold, 
And  hardy  genius  mold ! 


A  DREAM. 

LAST  night  I  had  a  dream, 
In  which  all  things  did  seem 
Arranged  to  suit  my  fancy. 


70  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

I  was  in  some  quaint  old  town, 

With  many  trees;  and,  walking  down 

A  quiet  street, 

As  if  by  necromancy, 

Beautiful  and  complete, 

A  house  for  princes  meet 

Did  my  wondering  vision  greet. 

Its  structure  was  of  brick; 
Stately  its  walls,  and  thick — 
Massive  and  imposing; 
Its  windows  stained, 
And,  like  cathedral's,  arching. 
Flowers  from  the  tropics, 
And  the  northern  spruce, 
Fountains  clear  and  sparkling  — 
All  that  can  conduce 
To  the  pleasure  of  the  optics, 
For  beauty  or  utility, 
Seemed  there  retained; 
Taste  joined  to  stability. 

Sweet  music  filled  the  air; 
And  round  it,  everywhere, 
The  spirit  of  beauty  fair 
Seemed  hovering. 

By  some  good  chance, 

I  was  then  invited 
Inside  this  splendid  manse ; 

And  I  was  there  delighted 


A  DREAM.  71 

To  find  my  husband  at  my  side, 

To  be  my  favored  guide 

Through  these  grand  halls  so  wide. 

The  house  was  furnished,  throughout, 

In  elegance  and  taste — 

Intensely  rich  yet  chaste ; 
Harmonious  within  as  without. 
And  it  was  owned,  no  doubt, 

By  some  one  of  high  caste. 

Each  room  delighted  me; 
And  I  was  always  shown 
The  convenience  of  the  place. 
The  last  we  went  to  see 
Suited  me  specially  — 
As  if  some  one  had  known 
My  likings ;  and  its  grace 
And  quiet  beauty  pleased  me. 
"  This,  if  we  lived  here, 

Should  be  my  very  own," 
I  said;  "for  I  could  riot  have  done 
It  more  to  my  liking; 
Rich  it  is  and  striking, 
Yet  full  of  comfort  and  cheer." 

"It  is  thine  own,"  he  said, 

"And  all  around  is  thine." 
And  I,  as  one  who  dreamed,  or  read 
A  fairy  tale,  scarce  breathed  for  dread 
Lest  it  should  vanish.     "Mine? 
Whence  this  princely  gift,  and  fine?" 


72  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

And  while,  with  wondering  eyes, 
I  gazed  in  mute  surprise, 

My  husband  laughingly 

Eeplied,  "  My  gift  to  thee." 
Then,  from  out  ev'ry  corner, 
Came  my  friends  and  former 
Neighbors  —  old  Albia  friends, 
"Whose  presence  to  the  scene  now  lends 

Still  more  enchantment; 
They  clap  their  hands  in  glee, 
And  laughingly,  at  me, 
Shake  their  heads — so  pleased  to  see 

My  great  astonishment. 

"Do  I  wake  or  am  I  dreaming?" 
Yet  this  very  pleasant  seeming 
Holds  me  spellbound,  with  its  teeming 
Joy  and  gladness.     Eyes  are  beaming 
With  true  love  light;  mine  are  streaming 
Now  with  grateful,  happy  tears. 


Ah,  'tis  all  a  dream ! 
Vanished  the  house  so  fine, 
And  the  forms  divine 
Of  well  beloved  friends. 
Yet  it  so  real  seemed, 
I  scarce  believed  I  dreamed. 


MOONLIT  CLOUDS.  78 


TO  SAEAH  ELIZABETH  A- 

( Princess)  (Consecrated  ) 


A  SONNET. 

A  PRINCESS,  indeed,  thou  art, 

With  yellow  hair  and  hazel  eyes ; 
An  impulsive  and  a  loving  heart 

That  is  always  ready,  and  ever  tries 
To  help  the  needy,  and  heal  the  dart 
Of  sin  and  sorrow,  in  every  heart. 
Consecrated,  too,  art  thou ; 

For,  to  our  Father's  will, 
Thou  did'st  ever  meekly  bow 

Thine  own  heart  still. 
"A  princess  consecrated  to  God  " — 

Thy  name  does  suit  thee  well; 
Thy  Christian  zeal  thy  friends  all  laud, 

Thy  noble  bearing  tell. 


MOONLIT  CLOUDS. 

I  LIKE  the  moonlit  clouds, 

With  their  ever-changing  scenes, 
Shifting  as  life's  panorama, 

Fitful  as  its  dreams. 

As  I  gaze,  alone  and  enraptured, 
All  kinds  of  shapes  they  take ; 
10 


74  EDDIES   OF  MEMOEY. 

Filling  the  heavens  with  glory, 

And  the  beautiful  pictures  they  make. 

In  the  south,  a  ship  is  sailing 

Upon  a  smooth- waved  sea; 
But,  like  the  ship  of  our  longing, 

'Tis  sailing  leeward  from  me. 

Another,  like  a  flying  steed, 
Is  coursing  through  the  air 

Like  a  swift-winged  messenger 
To  earth,  from  worlds  so  fair. 

Great  steeples,  in  bold  relief — 
Mountains,  and  sea,  and  land ; 

Rich-tinted  pictures  are  they, 
Drawn  by  the  Master  Hand. 

At  length  a  great  black  cloud 
Seems  to  swallow  up  the  moon, 

But,  like  the  others,  restless, 
Passes  away  soon. 

And  I  noticed,  as  I  gazed 

Upon  the  moonlit  ray, 
It  seemed  to  shine  the  brighter 

When  the  cloud  had  passed  away. 

And  so  'tis  with  life's  troubles, 
"Which  darken  and  obscure 

Almost  the  light  of  reason, 
So  hard  they  are  to  endure  — 


TO  LILLIAN  A .  75 

When  the  cloud  has  passed  over  the  soul, 
And  hope  shines  out  once  more, 

The  light  seems  brighter,  steadier, 
And  purer  than  before. 


And  we  are  stronger  from  the  strife; 

The  soul  made  free  and  pure 
By  the  rugged  discipline  of  life — 

And  clouds  will  not  long  obscure. 


TO  LILLIAN  A . 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

0  LILLIAN,  so  sweet  and  fair ! 
So  full  of  graceful  symmetry ! 

Such  beauty  thy  smooth  brow  didst  wear, 
When  last  I  saw  and  talked  with  thee  — 

1  cannot  think  of  thee  as  dead, 
And  thy  beautiful,  proud  head 
Laid  low  upon  the  lea. 

Surely  "Death  loves  a  shining  mark," 

Or  he  had  not  found  thee; 

So  fair,  so  beautiful  and  young  — 

Thy  life  a  poem  half  unsung, 

And  full  of  sweetest  harmony. 

All  beautiful  things  thou  didst  so  treasure  — 

There  may'st  thou  have  them,  in  full  measure ! 


76  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 


NOTHING  "WORTH  WHILE." 

"It  is  hard  to  believe  long  together  that  anything  is 
''worth  while/  unless  there  is  some  eye  to  kindle  in  com 
mon  with  our  own,  some  brief  word  uttered  now  and  then 
to  imply  that  what  is  infinitely  precious  to  us  is  precious 
alike  to  another  mind." — George  Eliot. 

THERE  is  nothing  worth  while 
Unless  shared  by  another; 

What  is  fortune's  sweet  smile 
If  it  glads  not  our  brother? — 

It  is  nothing  worth  while. 

The  sweetest  of  song 

The  sirens  can  sing 
Allures  us  not  long, 

Unless  we  can  bring 
Our  best  friend  along. 

The  joy  of  beholding 

A  beauteous  picture, 
Loses  half  the  unfolding 

Of  its  soft-tinted  feature, 
To  a  lonely  heart  viewing. 

And  wisest  tales  known, 

If  they  do  not  beguile 
Other  hearts  than  our  own, 

Are  hardly  worth  while, 
Though  in  bard's  sweetest  tone. 


HOPE.  77 

The  choicest  of  food, 

To  the  one  who  prepares  it, 
Is  not  half  so  good 

If  nobody  shares  it, 
And  in  silence  he  brood. 

What  a  bauble  is  fame, 

If  there  is  none 
To  speak  our  own  name 

As  the  dearest  one ! 
Ah !  life  is  tame. 

So  there's  nothing  worth  while, 

If  enkindles  no  eye 
With  a  thought  or  a  smile 

At  the  same  glad  sky — 
O  there's  nothing  worth  while. 

'Tis  companionship  sweet 

The  heart  most  craves; 
Love's  glances  meet, 

And  the  spirit  laves 
In  a  honeyed  retreat. 


HOPE. 

O  RESTLESS,  longing  heart! 
Why  do  the  teardrops  start, 

At  the  sad  thought  of  parting 
From  all  the  loved  ones  dear ! 
What  doubt  and  anxious  fear, 


78  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

For  what  the  future  holds  in  store ;  — 
Fear  lest  we  shall  meet  no  more, 
In  all  life's  wandering. 

If  this  were  all  of  life, 

It  would  be  naught  but  strife, 

And  love  an  idle  dream. 
All  pleasure  would  be  pain, 
And  worldly  losses  gain; 
All  nature  incomplete  — 
Only  oblivion  sweet  — 

And  life  a  stagnant  stream : 

ISTo  light,  nor  love,  nor  hope, 
In  the  universe;  we'd  grope 

In  almost  total  darkness. 
Useless  'twould  be  to  strive 
For  love,  or  wealth,  or  dive 
Into  the  mines  of  knowledge  deep; 
If  death  be  an  eternal  sleep, 

This  life's  too  short  for  gladness. 

I'm  glad  it  is  not  true  — 
This  picture  dark  I  drew 

From  sad  imaginings. 
There  is  a  land  most  vernal, 
Where  affection  blooms  eternal ; 
Where  all  our  loved  ones,  fair, 
Will  meet;  and,  freed  from  care, 

Shall  cease  their  wanderings. 


THANKSGIVING.  79 

TO  FRIENDS  AT  McPHERSOK 

I  MUST  put  away  my  longing 
For  those  who  know  and  love  me, 
Stifle  the  memories,  thronging, 
Of  the  past,  so  pleasant  to  me, 

And  most  resolutely 

Face  life's  present  duty, 
And  make  friends  of  these  strangers  about 
me. 

This  was  what  I  said, 

"When  first  I  came  among  you ; 

Shrinking  away  in  dread 

From  associations  new; 
But  not  long  till  hearts  so  warm 
As  yours  had  penetrated  through 
The  icy  mail  of  cool  reserve; 

And,  very  soon,  I  knew 

And  loved  you  all.     No  form 
Of  language  I  can  use  can  serve 
To  show  explicitly  to  you 
The  love  I  bear  you,  kind  friends,  true. 


THANKSGIVING. 

truly  thank  Thee,  our  Father  above, 
For  the  manifold  tokens  of  Thy  love, 
Which  Thou,  in  mercy,  dost  bestow 
Upon  Thy  creatures,  high  and  low! 


80  EDDIES  OF  MEMOKY. 

For  life  itself — a  glorious  boon, 
E'en  though  its  flower  vanish  soon; 
'Tis  like  a  richly-flowing  tune, 
Or  quiet  glory  of  the  moon. 

For  health  of  body,  and  of  mind, 

For  dear  friends  many,  true  and  kind; 

For  food  and  raiment,  and  the  light 

Of  our  loved  home,  this  Thanksgiving  night. 

For  country,  too,  we  grateful  are ; 
That  peace  and  plenty  are  her  share ; 
Nor  strife,  nor  war  her  glory  mar; 
Her  light  shines  out,  a  guiding  star. 

For  all  these  blessings,  we  adore 
Thy  holy  name ;  and  still  implore 
Thy  gifts  as  rich,  this  coming  year ; 
And  may  we  serve  in  love,  not  fear. 


SUNSHINE  AND  SHADE. 

How  checkered  is  this  life 

By  sunshine  bright,  and  shade  ! 

How  full  of  toil  and  strife ! 
Of  joy  and  pain  'tis  made. 

With  heavy  burdens  rife, 
And  joys  the  heart  to  glad; 

0  ever  changeful  life, 

Thou  art  most  glad  and  sad! 


THE  WINDS.  81 

Take  comfort  while  thou  canst, 

For  many  ills  will  come; 
The  present,  thus  enhanced, 

May  help  thee  some 

The  darkest  hours  to  bear, 
When  all  the  sunlight's  gone, 

And  lit  thee  for  the  care 

Which  comes  still  further  on. 

Enjoy  then  to  the  fullest 

The  pleasures  that  thou  hast! 
Be  glad  for  joys  the  smallest, 

For  aye  they  cannot  last ! 

Yet  forget  not,  in  the  darkest  hour, 
Dense  forests  have  their  glade; 

The  sun,  at  length,  exerts  his  power, 
And  penetrates  the  shade. 

And  so  it  is  with  life  — 

God's  penetrating  grace, 
Through  all  the  toil  and  strife, 

Will  shine  to  darkest  place. 


THE  WOT)S. 

BLOW,  winds,  blow! 
How  many  tales  ye  know 
Of  sorrow  and  of  woe, 
As  defiantly  ye  blow ! 
11 


82  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

How  many  tales  of  joy ! 
As,  idly,  thou  dost  toy, 
And  flaxen  curls  annoy, 
Which  love's  caress  employ. 

Blow,  moist  spring  winds,  blow ! 
Increase  the  streamlet's  flow, 
And  give  a  ruddy  glow 
To  the  cheeks  of  those  who  row. 


Blow,  gentle  winds,  and  low, 
So  softly  now,  and  slow, 
That  I  can  scarcely  kctow 
Whence  or  whither  ye  go ! 

Sigh,  gentle  zephyrs,  sigh, 
As  softly  ye  pass  by 
The  place  wherein  doth  lie 
Our  loved  and  lost  ones,  nigh ! 

Moan,  ye  wild  winds,  moan 
For  the  summer  that  has  flown  - 
For  the  widow's  silent  groan  — 
And  her  loneliness  bemoan ! 


Blow,  ye  swift  winds,  blow, 
And  quickly  onward  go; 
Too  many  things  ye  know 
Of  mortals  here  below ! 


CXXXVI  PSALM.  83 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  THIRTY-SIXTH 
PSALM. 

O  GIVE  thanks  unto  the  Lord;  for  He  is  good: 

For  His  mercy  endureth  forever : 
Who  giveth  unto  all  abundant  food, 

And  moves  all  things  by  His  will — a  mighty 
lever. 

O  give  thanks  unto  the  .mighty  Lord  of  Lords : 

For  His  mercy  endureth  forever; 
He  hath  redeemed  us  from  the  grievous  hordes  — 

Our  enemies  shall  trample  us,  no  never. 

To  Him  alone  who  doeth  wonders  great : 

Whose  mercy  endureth  forever : 
Who  remembered  us  when  in  our  low  estate  — 

In  tender  mercy  blessed  His  people  ever. 

To  Him  who  made  the  sun  to  rule  by  day, 
To  give  unto  His  creatures  brilliant  light ; 

The  moon  and  stars  holds  ever  in  their  way, 
To  cheer  and  lighten  up  the  weary  night. 

To  Him  who  by  His  wisdom  made  the  heaven ; 
And  by  whose  hand  so  strong,  and  outstretched 

arm, 

The  waters  of  the  Red  Sea,  high,  were  driven, 
That,  through,  His  people  passed  and  feared  no 
harm: 


84  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

But  overthrew  King  Pharaoh  and  his  host, 
When  he  to  follow  Israel  did  endeavor, 

And  thought  he  had  o'ertaken  them  almost, 
The  waters  high  God  did  no  longer  sever. 


And  now  His  goodness  and  His  love  so  great, 
His  promises  do  certainly  assever, 

Are  thrown  round  those  of  high  and  low  estate : 
For  His  mercy  endureth  forever. 


SIXTEENTH   WEDDING   ANNIVERSARY. 

I  AM  thinking,  dear,  of  our  wedding  day, 

When  life  all  seemed  so  bright; 
No  shadow  of  care  or  grief  had  fallen, 

To  cast  its  withering  blight. 


O'er  fond,  fair  dreams  of  the  future  we  dreamed, 

Transcendentally  beautiful; 
No  place  in  the  picture  was  left  for  shades, 

For  all  was  light  and  cheerful. 

This  world  seemed  so  much  like  a  fairy  land, 

With  crystal  palaces  white; 
We  thought  the  sun  would  forever  shine, 

And  there  would  be  no  night. 


SIXTEENTH  WEDDING  ANNIVERSARY.  85 

Bright  fancies  we  wove,  and  air  castles  built, 

Of  the  ideal  life  we  would  live ; 
The  home  we  would  have,  the  things  we  would 
do; 

Brightest  touches  to  life  we  would  give. 

Time  passed.     There  was  much  of  beauty  and 

joy- 
Much  of  sorrow  and  care  as  well; 
Our  fairy  picture  had  shades  in  perspective, 
And  many  an  air  castle  fell. 


Our  fond  ideal  gave  place  to  the  real ; 

Thorns  grew  in  fields  Elysian; 
ISot  here,  but  yonder,  we-  have  learned  to  turn 

Our  longing,  tear-dimmed  vision. 

Yet,  through  all  the  struggles  of  many  years, 

Love's  sun  has  never  set; 
Though  clouds  sometimes  obscured  the  light, 

The  days  are  halcyon  yet. 

And  when  we  cross  o'er  to  the  other  shore, 

Then  we  will  realize 

The  fond,  fair  dreams  we  once  dreamed  here  be 
low, 

In  the  beauty  of  the  skies. 


86  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 


THE  ORPHAK 

THE  night  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary, 
And  fierce  and  wild  the  wind  is  blowing. 

Without,  stands  one  so  sad  and  weary, 
"While,  fast  and  faster,  it  is  snowing. 

"Within,  are  comfort  and  good  cheer — 
The  ringing  laugh  of  mirth  and  gladness; 

The  happy  circle  gathered  here 
Knows  naught  of  wretched  want  or  sadness. 

Without,  benumbed  by  winter's  blast, 
Alone  she  stands  as  if  in  trance; 

And,  at  the  scene  within,  is  cast 

Her  burning,  hungry,  longing  glance. 

She,  too,  a  happy  home  had  known, 
Like  this  one  full  of  warmth  and  pleasure  — 

Ere  death  had  come,  and  wealth  had  flown, 
And  left  her  naught  of  earthly  treasure. 

And  long  she  stands  and  looks  within, 
And  listens  with  strained  ears  to  hear 

Sweet  sounds  of  music,  that  have  been 
Well  known  to  her,  one  time,  and  dear. 

Then,  shivering,  she  turns  away, 

With  bitter  thoughts  and  aching  brow; 

Her  attic  seeks,  and  tries  to  pray  — 
O  God  of  orphans,  hear  her  now ! 


TIME.  87 

She  prays  for  faith  and  strength  to  see, 
Through  all  her  want  and  poverty, 

God's  providence  and  equity, 
And  why  life's  seeming  subtlety. 

Who  knows  what  changes  time  may  bring 
To  happiest  hearts  or  gayest  scene? 

For  fortune  is  a  fickle  thing — 

We  cannot  count  on  its  gifts,  I  ween. 

O  ye  who  know  not  want  nor  care ! 

Whose  ev'ry  wish  by  love's  supplied ; 
Who  live  in  homes  so  bright  and  fair, 

Take  pity  at  this  Christmas-tide, 

And  scatter  gifts  afar  and  wide. 


TIME. 

Too  swiftly  time  is  flying, 

Ah,  me ! 
And  all  around  me  lying, 

Things  incomplete  I  see. 


E'en  now  it  is  high  noontide — 

Tome! 
Life's  morning  did  so  swiftly  glide 

Into  eternity! 


88  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

So  much.  I  meant  to  do, 

Undone ! 
Noon !  and  night  will  soon  ensue  • 

A  lifetime  quickly  run ! 

Life's  sands  are  measured  fast  — 

Unerringly ; 
'  Tis  scarce  begun  till  past ! 

Death  claims  us  willingly! 


A  BAYONET  CHARGE. 

WKITTEN  UPON  HEARING  THE  HON.  S.  R.  PETERS  DESCRIBE  A 
CHARGE  UPON  THE  ENEMY'S  WORKS. 

0,  THE  dread  din  of  battle! 

The  thunder  of  the  cannon's  roar — 

The  pools  of  human  gore  — 

The  clatter  and  the  rattle 

Of  horses  hoofs  and  musketry! 

"Charge,  bayonets,  charge!" 

For  the  enemy's  breastworks,  charge ! 

Double-quick,  march!" 

Rang  through  the  sunlit  arch 

Of  the  clear,  blue  sky  above  them. 

One  glance  at  the  sun's  bright  ray, 
And  one  thought  of  home,  that  may 
Be  the  last  they  can  see  or  give — 
For  who  shall  die  or  live, 
Not  one  of  the  great  throng  knows. 


A  BAYONET  CHARGE.  89 

Then  with  bayonets  fixed  and  glistening, 
Each  to  his  heart  throbs  listening, 
The  solid  phalanx  goes, 
Even  to  death's  last  thoes, 
Bravely,  steadily,  unflinchingly. 

You  can  hear  the  manly  shout 
Of  brave  men,  who  all  about 
Encounter  the  jagged  lattice 
Of  the  sharp-pointed  abbattis, 
So  hard  to  overcome. 

The  cruel  shot  and  shell, 
With  a  spite  no  tongue  can  tell, 
Hew  them  down  on  right  and  left; 
But  the  places  which  are  cleft 
Are  quickly  filled  by  others. 

Line  after  line  is  broken, 
And  filled  e'er  command  is  spoken, 
And  at  last  the  strong  works  yield; 
But  strewn  is  the  grassy  field 
"With  those  who  will  never  know. 

And  the  men  with  the  flush  and  glory 
Of  surely  attained  victory 
Press  on,  and  the  battle  is  gained. 
But  O,  the  dead  and  maimed 
Who  have  paid  the  dreadful  price ! 

The  enemy's  forces  are  scattered — 
Their  strong  works  torn  and  battered ; 
12 


90  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Our  flag,  from  the  parapet, 
Waves  high,  ere  the  sun  is  set, 
And  victorious  cheers  resound. 


But  after  the  first  glad  shout 
Of  victory  has  rung  out, 
There  comes  a  dreadful  hush; 
To  the  victors'  hearts  there  rush 
Fears  for  their  comrades  dear. 

For  over  the  fallen  they  charged — 
With  fury  and  speed  they  had  charged ! 
And,  mayhap,  their  own  iron  heels, 
Had  given  the  wound  that  seals 
The  death-doom  of  their  friend. 

"  Where's  John,  my  dearest  comrade, 
Whom  last  I  saw  press  onward 
With  the  courage  of  Achilles?" 
And,  down  upon  his  knees, 
He  seeks  him  'mong  the  dying. 

The  sun  in  undisturbed 
Quiet  and  beauty  is  setting ; 
While  many  a  hero,  unobserved, 
Slowly  his  life  blood  is  letting  — 
Dying  for  the  land  he  loves. 

Brave,  bravest  of  all ! 
Even  death  does  not  appall 


SOMETIME.  91 


The  noble  soldier's  heart; 
For  he  has  borne  his  part 
For  his  loved  country's  weal. 


SOMETIME. 

SOME  day,  sometime,  O  tired  breast, 
Above  life's  storm  tossed,  billowy  crest, 
Thou  shalt  have  a  long,  sweet  rest ! 
And  never  again  know  weariness. 

The  knowledge  sought,  but  unattained, 
Shall  there  so  easily  be  gained; 
And  ne'er  again  our  hearts  be  pained 
By  aspirations  sorely  maimed. 

The  songs  we  cannot  sing  below 
Shall  there  be  given  us  to  know; 
And  purer  than  the  lilies'  blow, 
Our  garments — whiter  than  the  snow. 

Sometime,  our  wistful  eyes  shall  see 
And  solve  what  now  is  mystery; 
Why  truth  is  captive,  error  free, 
And  life  so  full  of  misery. 

And  there,  at  last,  our  high  ideal 

Of  love  and  harmony  shall  be  real: 

Our  brows  not  wreathed  with  bitter  cerrial, 

But  love's  bright  chaplets  —  crowns  imperial. 


92  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

FANTASIES. 

I.-REGRET. 

Too  late  in  life,  my  life  work  has  begun; 
I  feel  in  breathless  haste,  lest  life  be  run 
Before  the  half  I  want  to  do  is  done. 
So  late  the  dream  of  childhood  is  fulfilled — 
So  late  before  my  heart  with  rapture  thrilled - 
Or  poetic  ecstacy  its  measure  filled 
With  overflowing  song. 

II.-APPREHENSION. 

Sometimes  there  comes  to  me  a  dread 
Lest  I  should  lose  the  shining  thread — 

The  mystic  key, 

Unraveling  to  me 

The  labyrinths  of  the  sea 

Of  time,  in  poesy ;  — 
Fear,  lest  quickly  from  my  heart, 
Just  as  it  came,  it  may  depart. 

in. 

Are  the  gifts  of  the  Muse  unstable, 
Like  the  gods  of  Grecian  fable? 
Bestowing  favors  to  deceive  — 
Alluring  one,  and  then  take  leave? 

IV.-REASSURANCE. 

Thou  would'st  not  so  wicked  be — 
Tempting  one  so  fancy  free, 
And^then  desert  most  cruelly ! 


REPOSE.  93 

I'll  tune  my  lyre  anew  to  thee, 
And  sing  thy  praise  in  melody, 
And  thou  wilt  then  abide  with  me. 

V.-SONG   TO   THE   MUSE. 

Beautiful,  art  thou,  as  Helen! 
Like  Minerva,  great  and  wise ! 
Working  in  men's  hearts  like  leaven — 
Leading  upward  to  the  skies, 
By  the  brightness  of  thine  eyes, 
And  thy  songs  of  home  and  heaven. 

Thou  hast  forged  a  silver  chain, 
Which  binds  our  hearts  to  thee  for  aye; 
Stronger  than  Vulcan's  mighty  main 
Seining  and  bright  as  the  light  of  day; 
Thou  dost  cheer  our  lone  pathway 
With  music,  and  a  roundelay, 
As  sweet  as  bird's  notes  after  rain ! 


REPOSE. 

O  GLORIOUSLY  perfect  day ! 
So  soft  the  breezes  stray, 
Caressingly,  about  our  way; 
And  the  warm  sunbeams  play 
Around  us,  as  in  May. 

The  golden  autumn  sunshine 
All  nature  does  refine, 


94  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

And  her  brows  with  glory  twine; 
While  joy  and  peace  divine 
O'er  all  the  scene  recline. 

'Tis  the  charm  of  sweet  repose 
The  autumn  round  us  throws, 
At  the  busy  harvest's  close ; 
As  to  sleep  Dame  Nature  goes, 
Dressed  in  her  brightest  clothes. 

Oh  happy  heart,  be  still ! 
And  cease  thy  rapturous  thrill 
For  joys  thy  cup  doth  fill. 
Soon  winter's  winds  will  chill, 
For  thou  art  mortal,  still ! 

I  tremble  for  the  gladness 
That  fills  the  heart  to  madness  — 
Joy  more  awful  is  than  sadness ! 
For,  even  in  its  fullness, 
It  saddens  by  its  fleetness. 


TO  ADESAH 


I  SHALL  never  forget  our  woodland  rambles, 
When,  tired  a-tramping  through  the  brambles, 
We  sat  down  to  rest  on  some  huge,  old  log; 
And  you'd  tell  me  stories  of  ships  lost  in  fog, 
Or  plundered  by  pirates,  with  flag  black  and  red, 
Who,  nightly,  a  man  down  their  gangway  led 


HOME.  95 

And  plunged  into  the  deep;  or  gales 
That  veered  the  ships,  with  tattered  sails, 
Far  from  their  course.     These  weird  tales 
Held  me,  in  strong  infatuation, 
Spellbound  by  their  strange  fascination. 
A  love  for  the  marvelous  ever  was  thine, 
With  a  memory  and  imagination  fine, 
And  an  easy,  superior  style  of  narration. 


HOME. 

IF  one  the  comforts  of  a  home  would  know, 
Let  him,  for  ten  miles,  face  a  northeast  blow, 
Across  a  prairie  lone,  and  wild,  and  bleak; 
No  place  in  sight  where  he  might  even  seek 
Shelter  and  fire;  the  night  approaching  fast; 
The  dull  November  sky  with  clouds  o'ercast; 
The  road  so  dim  that  he  could  scarcely  see  — 
Taking  the  wrong  one  through  sheer  anxiety; 
Tired,  nervous  and  cold,  and  weary  of  heart, 
He  feels,  if  at  home,  he  would  never  again  depart. 

Then,  ere  he  knows  it,  let  the  light  of  home — 
Brighter  to  him  than  all  lights  ever  shone — 
Shine  out  its  welcome  o'er  his  darkened  path; 
Bespeaking  shelter  from  the  night  wind's  wrath, 
And  love  of  her  who  placed  it  there  to  guide 
The  wand'rer  safely  back  to  his  fireside : 


96  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Then  if  a  heart  e'er  gratitude  does  know, 
Or  e'er  with  thanks  to  God  does  overflow, 
His  own  does  now,  as  quickly  he  drives  in, 
And  sees  the  warmth  and  glow  that  is  within. 


A  cheerful  fire,  and  supper  smoking  hot, 
Love-light  in  eyes  still  dimmed  with  tears,  lest 

not 

In  safety,  through  the  dark  and  stormy  night, 
Her  loved  one  would  return — this  cheerful  sight, 
Heaven  itself,  by  contrast,  seems  to  him 
Who  out  in  the  drear  November  night  has  been. 
He  thanks  his  God  for  the  comforts  of  a  home, 
And  begs  His  mercy  upon  those  who  roam 
The  weary  world,  in  darkness  and  alone — 
Upon  whose  path  the  light  of  home  ne'er  shone. 

And  so  the  light  of  heaven  will,  I  ween, 
Fall  on  our  troubled  vision,  as  between 
This  world  and  yon,  our  spirits  hovering 
Await  the  signal  that  our  home  we're'  nearing. 
And,  as  the  gloom  and  darkness  were  dispelled 
By  the  light,  and  warmth,  and  peace  of  home, 

which  swelled 

His  heart  with  gratitude  —  so  even  then, 
World-worn  and  weary,  tempest  tossed  again, 
We'll  hail  with  joy  the  beacon  light  of  heaven, 
And  ne'er  again  by  earth  storms  will  be  driven. 


DUTY.  97 

DUTY. 

TO  A.  E.  N . 

"Do  thy  duty;  that  is  best; 
Leave  unto  thy  Lord  the  rest." 

—  Longfellow. 

STEADILY,  steadily  toiling, 
Frying,  and  baking,  and  boiling — 
Endless  the  strife  and  turmoiling 

Of  woman's  life ! 

Sewing,  and  making,  and  mending, 
Her  children's  wants  attending, 
A  round  of  work,  unending — 

Perpetual  strife! 

Washing,  ironing,  and  sweeping; 
Her  house  in  order  keeping, 
By  slowly,  surely  eking 

Her  strength  away. 
Sorely  the  time  she's  needing, 
To  do  some  little  reading, 
For  which  her  mind's  been  pleading 

Many  a  day. 

But  all  else  must  be  attended, 
The  clothes  all  made  or  mended, 
Or  the  garden  neatly  tended  — 

She  has  no  rest. 
And  ever  something's  needing; 
Time  flies  so  fast — unheeding 
The  heart's  sad,  restless  pleading 

For  its  bequest. 
13 


98  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

And  so  a  lifetime's  passed! 
Still,  duty  is  the  mast 
Which  holds  her,  to  the  last, 

Amid  all  trial. 
Surely  for  her,  at  the  gates, 
The  "  blessed  vision  "  waits ! 
For  she  is  strong  in  traits 

Of  self-denial. 

Her  hand  has  never  stayed, 
Nor  duty  been  delayed ; 
Self-sacrifice  she's  made 

For  all  about  her. 
The  needy  at  her  door 
Find  bread — and  evermore 
She  is  ready  to  adore 

Her  blessed  Savior. 

Sweet  must  be  the  rest, 
When,  at  her  Lord's  behest, 
To  mansions  of  the  blest 

Her  spirit  soars ! 
Around  a  life  thus  spent, 
So  earnest  and  intent, 
A  hallowed  charm  is  lent  — 

Its  love  outpours. 


A  SKETCH.  99 


A  SKETCH. 

THE  light  of  love  and  gladness 

Is  in  her  heart  to-day ; 
The  earth  is  filled  with  heauty 

And  a  merry  roundelay. 

The  air  is  soft  and  perfumed, 

As  from  orchards  blooming  nigh; 

While  overhead,  so  calmly, 
The  fleecy  clouds  float  high. 

All  life  is  set  to  music — 

A  poem  sweet  and  rare; 
For  the  love  that  is  in  her  heart 

Makes  all  the  earth  so  fair. 

Her  golden  curls  are  loosened  — 
The  rose  blooms  in  her  cheeks; 

And  sitting,  softly  singing, 
Her  glance  the  gateway  seeks. 

In  joyful  expectation, 

For  the  ideal  of  her  heart — 
At  the  coming  of  whose  footsteps, 

Her  happy  pulses  start. 

But  who  is  that  she  sees, 

With  step  slow  and  unsteady? 

"Why  are  her  cheeks  so  blanched  — 
Her  welcome  so  unready? 


100  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Surely  it  is  not  he 

Of  whom  she  has  been  dreaming ! 
This  reeling,  muttering  man  — 

And  yet  it  has  his  seeming. 


Hast  thou  ever  known  a  sorrow 
That  like  a  sharp-toothed  harrow 

Strikes  into  the  very  soul  ? 
"Whose  blighting  frosts,  so  sere, 
Wither  each  promise  dear, 

And  shatter  ev'ry  idol? 

With  outstretched  arms  didst  cry, 
"Is  there  a  God?  then  why 

Such  bitter  suffering?" 
Then  only  canst  thou  know 
The  depths  of  human  woe, 

By  thine  own  measuring. 


"  Surely  it  is  a  dream, 

This  awful,  crushing  sorrow — 
Things  are  not  what  they  seem  — 

'Twill  all  be  right  to-morrow ! 

"And  I,  in  love's  delirium, 

So  happy  I  could  soar 
To  skies  empyrean, 

A  few  short  weeks  before  — 


A  SKETCH.  101 

"Now  to  suffer  like  this! 

Suddenly  to  have  fallen 
Into  the  dark  abyss 

Of  almost  hopeless  woe ! 
'Tis  like  to  being  driven 

Into  Phlegethon  low, 
After  a  glimpse  of  heaven." 


The  years  have  come  and  gone : 

And  a  tired  woman  sits 
Wearily  watching  the  door, 

As  silently  she  knits. 

Gone  is  the  bloom  from  her  cheeks  — 
A  haggard  look  they  wear; 

No  more  the  earth  is  blooming, 
In  fragrance,  everywhere. 

The  song,  so  blithe  and  free, 
Long  ago  died  out  of  her  heart; 

At  every  sound  she  hears, 
She  gives  a  nervous  start — 

For  with  fear,  instead  of  longing, 
His  coming,  now,  she  waits ; 

Harsh  words,  instead  of  loving, 
She  now  anticipates. 

The  sky  is  blue  above  her — 
The  fleecy  clouds  roll  high; 


102  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

But  no  longer  orchard  blossoms 
Waft  their  sweet  fragrance  nigh. 

For  the  beautiful  home  is  gone  — 

A  sacrifice  to  drink; 
And  of  sky  and  air  about  her, 

She  does  not  care  to  think. 

For  all  the  light  and  gladness 
Have  fled  from  out  her  life ; 

And  only  pain  and  sadness 
Remain  —  and  weary  strife. 

Still  true  to  the  pledge  she  gave  him, 
When  by  his  side  a  bride  — 

"  For  weal  or  woe  I  take  thee, 
"Whatever  may  betide." 


CHANGE. 

AFTER  many  years  we  meet  again, 
Upon  life's  mighty,  restless  main  — 
Amid  other  scenes  and  stranger  ones- 
After  the  cycle  of  many  suns. 

Each  notes  a  change  he  cannot  tell 
In  words,  though  analyzing  well 
The  other's  every  tone  and  look, 
As  if  reviewing  a  much-loved  book. 


LINES  TO  MY  MOTHER.  103 

O  time !  O  change !  how  ruthlessly 
Thou  tearest  the  bonds  of  sympathy, 
Of  hearts  that  did  so  joyously 
Fulfill  each  other's  moiety. 

Is  it  that  one  has  graver  grown 
Because  his  youthful  hopes  have  flown? 
Or  has  the  other  one  grown  sordid, 
Because  of  treasure  he  has  hoarded? 

Ah !  both  have  changed,  as  all  must  change 
"Who  on  time's  seething  tidal  range ; 
Youth's  impulse  warm,  and  hopefulness, 
Give  place  to  care  or  selfishness : 

Except  in  natures  rare  and  sweet, 
Whose  hearts  with  love  are  so  replete, 
That  all  life's  storms  and  icy  blasts, 
Their  gentle  love  cannot  out  cast. 


LINES  TO  MY  MOTHER, 

WITH  A  WREATH  OF  RIPENED  GRAIN,  UPON  HER  BIRTHDAY, 
OCTOBER  29,  1885. 

THIS  ripened  grain  fit  emblem  is  to  thee, 
Of  a  life  well  spent  and  full  of  charity. 

The  wreath  that  encircles  thy  plate : 

Thy  endless  love,  innate, 

For  children,  friends  and  mate. 


104  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

These  immortelles:    the   influence  thou  hast 

wrought 
Upon  our  lives,  which  thou  hast  ever  sought 

To  gently  guide  aright. 

Surely  thy  crown  is  bright — 

To  thee  shall  be  no  night! 

May  the  golden  Indian  summer  of  thy  life 
Be  free  from  toil  and  care  and  worldly  strife; 

Full  of  the  sweet  repose 

That  a  godly  life  bestows, 

E'en  to  life's  very  close ! 

Accept  this  from  thy  absent,  loving  one, 

Who'd  crown  thee  with  the  brightness  of  the  sun 

If  it  were  hers  to  give  — 

And  years,  for  thee  to  live, 

Outnumbering  the  sands  that  sieve 

The  passing  hours  of  time. 

I  reach  my  hand  to  thine 

And  greet  thee,  mother  mine ! 

Though  weary  miles  between 

Us  now  do  intervene. 

Across  all  time  and  space 

I  see  thy  smiling  face ; 

Our  hands  now  interlace  — 

Our  loving  hearts  embrace ! 

By  loving  ties  so  blest, 

I  am, 

Your  own  CELESTE. 


NO  NEW  THING  UNDER  THE  SUN.  105 


NO  NEW  THING  UNDER  THE  SUN. 

ECCLESIASTES,  FIRST  CHAPTER. 

THERE'S  "  no  new  thing  under  the  sun ! " 

Men  are  born,  grow  up  and  marry  — 

For  a  little  while  they  tarry, 

And  then  their  race  is  run. 

And  all  one  can  say  or  do 

Long  ago  has  been  gone  through  — 

For  there's  nothing  new  under  the  sun. 

"Why  strive  we  so  earnestly, 
Wrestle  so  arduously? 
For  life,  at  its  best, 
Is  a  little  boon  — 
Gone  so  soon ! 

The  rivers  run  to  the  sea, 

Yet  fill  it  not; 
The  crooked  cannot  straightened  be  — 

Sad  is  our  lot ! 
"Wisdom,  itself,  is  vanity, 
And  fame  an  unreality, 
And  all  a  sad  fatality ! 

No  matter  if  there's  nothing  new  under  the  sun  • 
Great  things  men  are  learning,  one  by  one ! 

And  life  is  a  blessing, 

Twice  worth  possessing; 

Then  cheerfully  run 

14 


106  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Till  the  race  is  done, 
Filling  your  mission  — 
Then  reap  the  fruition, 
Of  God's  "Well  done." 

As  the  rivers  flow  into  the  sea, 
Although  they  fill  not, 

They  gladden  most  bounteously 
The  land  throughout. 

What  though  the  crooked  and  straight 
Together  must  grow ! 

What  though  our  hearts  must  wait, 
Oft  burdened,  below ! 
The  bitter  and  the  sweet 
In  every  life  must  meet, 
Till  eternity  we  know. 

Then  laugh  at  pain, 

And  wisdom  gain, 
That  far  exceedeth  folly ; 

Just  after  rain 

'Tis  bright  again — 
Indulge  not  melancholy. 


WAITING. 

THE  lamps  are  all  shining  and  bright, 

The  house  all  set  aright, 

For  he's  coming  home  to-night — 


WAITING.  107 

The  absent  one  so  dear, 
For  whom  the  fire  burns  clear  — 
And  the  hearth  is  clean  and  bright. 

The  snowy  cloth  is  laid, 

The  table  all  arrayed 

With  the  best  things,  on  parade; 

While  viands,  choice  and  rare, 

The  loving  hands  prepare 
For  him  who's  still  delayed. 

The  doorway  oft  is  sought, 
With  loving  eyes  and  thought, 
To  scan  the  road,  lest  not 

His  coming  be  discerned — 

And  oft  away  are  turned, 
Disappointed,  seeing  naught. 

The  flush  of  expectancy, 

The  eyes'  deep  brilliancy, 

Tell  the  restless  anxiety, 

As  the  hours  glide  on  apace, 

And  her  heart  keeps  time  and  pace, 

As  the  day  wanes  rapidly. 

At  last,  through  the  even-tide 
Twilight,  there  is  descried 
A  carriage  large  and  wide, 

Which  "  surely  is  the  '  mail ' 

A-coming  from  the  '  rail,' 
With  the  loved  for  our  fireside." 


108  EDDIES  OF  MEMOKY. 

All  now  is  bustle  and  glee, 

To  see  who  first  will  be 

To  greet  the  absentee ; 
But  the  carriage  goes  swiftly  along, 
Leaving  them  standing  alone, 

Dejected,  despondently. 

The  bright  eyes  fill  with  tears, 

And  hearts  with  gloomy  fears — 

Foreboding  ill  appears. 

"He  will  not  come  to-night — 
And  what  if  our  longing  sight 

Ne'er  again  meet  his  that  cheers." 

The  brightness  that's  within 

Seems  mockery,  akin 

To  sacrilegious  sin; 
For  may  be,  even  now, 
The  proud  head's  lying  low, 

'Mid  accident's  sad  din. 

But  hark!  the  dog  is  barking, 
Such  sad  thoughts  interlarding — 
The  whir  of  wheels  fast  coming. 

Quickly  the  fire's  replenished; 

And  gloomy  forebodings  banished; 
"With  hope  the  heart's  high  beating. 

Soon  a  well-known  voice  is  heard, 
And  the  joy,  so  long  deferred, 
Is  here :  like  a  weary  bird, 


TO  MADGE.  109 

She  nestles  in  loving  arms, 
Free  from  sad  fear's  alarms — 
And  thanks  God  her  prayer  was  heard. 


TO  MADGE. 

ACROSS  the  table  at  which  I  sit  writing, 

A  dear  brown  head  is  bent, 

So  busily  intent 
Upon  something  she,  too,  is  carefully  writing. 

Her  cheeks  are  flushed,  her  dark  eyes  bright 
"With  thoughts  that  seem  to  please  her; 
And  smiles  the  sweet  lips  stir. 

"What  is  my  little  girl  writing  to-night  ? 

"I  am  writing  poems,  too! 
And  one,  dear  mamma,  just  for  you; 
But  not  as  yours,  so  good  all  through!" 

Ah !  thanks  my  child,  for  your  loving  lays ! 
And  thank  you,  too,  for  fulsome  praise! 
I'll  prize  them  both,  through  all  my  days. 
God  guide  your  feet  in  wisdom's  ways — 
Is  what  a  loving  mother  prays ; 
And  wishes,  too,  her  little  essays 
Critics  as  kind  might  find  always. 


110  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 


DAY-DAWN. 

"THE  night  is  far  spent — 

The  day  is  at  hand;  " 
Already  is  lent 

A  charm  to  the  land, 
From  the  roseate  glow 

In  the  eastern  sky, 
By  which  we  may  know 

That  the  day  is  nigh. 

The  day,  with  its  glory, 

Its  freedom  and  light, 
Will  tell  a  new  story, 

And  banish  the  night 
Of  dark  superstition 

And  ignorance's  blight, 
And  bring  to  fruition 

Our  plans  for  the  right. 

And  woman,  no  longer, 

A  chattel  shall  be 
To  him  who  is  stronger, 

But  she  shall  be  free : 
By  her  own  volition, 

To  her  talent  and  taste 
She  shall  choose  a  vocation - 

ISTor  time  shall  she  waste. 

Because  that,  forsooth, 
A  woman  alone 


DAY-DAWN.  Ill 

Can  attend  the  fine  woof 

And  the  fixtures  of  home, 
Is  no  reason  why  — 

Whether  suited  or  not — 
All  should  housekeeping  try, 

And  choose  the  same  lot, — 

Any  more  than  at  farming 

All  our  brothers  should  toil; 
"While  truly  alarming 

Would  be  the  turmoil, 
If  they  all  the  same  work 

Were  obliged  to  seek — 
Else  be  called  a  shirk — 

An  existence  to  eke. 

Let  her  lecture  and  preach 

In  her  voice  soft  and  sweet : 
Let  her  "doctor"  and  teach, 

With  dexterity  neat: 
She  will  be  just  as  kind 

When  you're  sick  or  in  need — 
Truest  help  you  will  find ; 

Then  bid  her— "  God  speed." 

And,  when  the  full  noon-day 

In  glory  shall  shine, 
'Twill  show  woman  the  true  way 

Her  love  to  entwine 
Round  the  inmates  of  home, 

Whose  queen  she  shall  be  — 
Her  mind  its  great  dome 

And  sweet  sanctity. 


112  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 


TO  NELLIE  E.  B- 


MOST  precious  to  me, 
Is  the  sweet  memory 
Of  the  evenings  when  we 
Discussed,  socially, 
Dickens's  great  powers, 
And  the  mellow  bellfl  owers ! 
Fast  flew  the  hours ; 
For  employment  like  ours 
Lends  wings  to  time. 

The  flavor  of  the  fruit 

In  richness  just  did  suit 

The  books  we  so  enjoyed  — 

And  neither  ever  cloyed. 

And  thy  fair,  Saxon  face, 

Alive  with  thought  and  grace  — 

Its  violet  eyes 

Like  deep-tinted  skies  — 

Gave  coloring  rich, 

As,  in  musical  pitch, 

You  read  "Dombey  and  Son," 

Or  the  "Pickwick"  fun. 

Companionship  like  thine 

I  would  were  ever  mine. 

Accept  this  little  rhyme 

For  the  sake  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne.3 


CHRISTMAS.  113 


CHRISTMAS. 

"  CHRISTMAS  is  really  coming," 

Even  out  here  in  the  West ! 
And  bright  eyes  already  are  summing 

Up  things  they  would  like  to  have  best. 

And  loving  hands  busy  preparing 
Gifts  for  chidren  and  friends; 

For  'tis  this  giving  and  sharing 
The  charm  to  Christmas  day  lends. 

Of  all  glad  days  '  tis  the  gladdest, 
And  fullest  of  joy  and  delight: 

God  pity  the  poor,  who  are  saddest, 
And  help  us  make  their  hearts  light. 

Years  ago,  when  the  sweet  superstition, 
Of  a  veritable  Santa  Claus,  kind, 

"With  the  wand  of  a  mighty  magician  — 
Who  rode  on  the  waves  of  the  wind, 

Scattering  gifts  everywhere  as  he  went, 
With  his  sleigh  and  reindeers  fleet, 

On  his  gladdening  errands  intent — 
Held  our  thoughts  in  thrall  so  sweet. 

How  well  I  remember  the  hurry 
We  children  were  in  to  peep; 

We  could  scarcely  wait,  in  our  flurry, 
For  a  fire  in  the  fire-place  deep; 
15 


114  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

For  downstairs  by  the  chimney-side, 
Our  stockings  were  hung  at  night, 

That  down  the  flue  so  wide, 
He  could  easily  alight. 

Even  yet  I  have  not  outgrown 

The  glad  curiosity, 
Which  at  Christmas  dawn  is  known, 

To  see  what  Santa  Glaus  brought  me. 

A  merry  Christmas  greeting 
To  my  many  friends  so  true ! 

"Wishing  many  a  gladsome  meeting, 
And  many  things  bright  and  new. 


A  WINTER  SONG. 

THE  winter  is  here, 

"With  all  its  good  cheer, 
And  long,  pleasant  evenings'  delight. 

The  chores  are  all  done, 

And  one  by  one, 
Each  joins  the  home  circle  bright. 

"Without  it  may  blow, 

And  toss  the  snow; 
"Within  all  is  warmth  and  light. 

And  joy  and  mirth, 

Around  the  hearth, 
Make  happy  hearts  to-night, 


A  PRAYER.  115 

As,  with  joyous  song, 

Time  speeds  along, 
Filled  with  pleasant  recreation. 

Long  tales  are  read, 

And  lessons  had 
For  the  morrow's  recitation. 

And  corn  is  popped, 

And  nuts  are  cracked; 
And  riddles,  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

Are  guessed  and  guessed, 

Until,  at  last, 
They  are  told  it  is  bed-time. 

The  hours  pass 

Too  fast,  alas! 
'  Tis  bed-time  ere  they're  ready. 

O,  happy  time ! 

A  golden  rhyme 
Are  winter's  pleasures,  surely. 


A  PRAYER. 

O  THOU  great,  loving  Heart, 
Throbbing  with  tenderness, 

Look  down  upon  us  now, 
Forgive  our  waywardness ! 

The  hidden  fires  within 
Our  natures  frighten  us; 


116  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Like  craters,  bursting  forth 
From  slumbering  volcanoes. 

With  saddened  hearts  we  throw 
Ourselves  upon  Thy  grace; 

With  choking  sobs  we  bow  — 
O  let  us  see  thy  face ! 

Thy  works  are  glorious — 
This  world  so  beautiful ; 

All  things  declare  Thy  praise, 
Only  man  is  sinful ! 

He,  who  should  praise  the  most  - 
So  slow  Thy  will  to  know ! 

O  help  us  keep  the  paths 
We  know  we  ought  to  go ! 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

THE  New  Year  with  its  hopes  and  fears, 
Its  promises  of  joy  and  tears  — 
A  welcome,  yet  a  dreaded  host — 
Is  waiting  like  a  silent  ghost. 

O,  if  .we  did  its  secrets  know, 
Whether  it  held  more  joy  or  woe 
For  us  poor  tenants  here  below, 
Warmer  greeting  we  might  bestow : 


GROWING  OLD.  117 

Or  else,  in  terror,  might  recoil 
From  all  the  sorrow  and  turmoil 
We'd  see  for  us  was  held  in  store, 
And  shrink,  faint-hearted,  e'en  before 

It  was  begun :  so  that,  in  this, 

A  state  of  "Ignorance  is  bliss." 

But  fair  thy  promises,  O  Year! 

We'll  trust  thee,  then,  nor  think  of  fear. 

Good-by,  Old  Year!  that  just  is  done  — 
Too  quickly  and  full  well  you've  run 
Your  mission  here.     We  had  our  share 
Of  pleasure — and  we  grateful  are. 

With  high  resolves,  and  courage  true, 
And  hopefulness,  we'll  greet  the  New; 
And  pray  that,  sparingly,  He'll  deal 
Our  sorrows  —  bountifully,  our  weal. 


GROWING  OLD. 

How  fast  time  flies !  And  we're  growing  old ! 
The  summer's  past,  and  the  winter's  cold 
Withers  the  flowers  along  our  path, 
And  we  gather,  instead,  the  aftermath. 

Not  so  fragrant  and  fresh  as  the  first  glad  crop 
Of  youthful  hopes,  in  which  there's  no  drop 


118  EDDIES  OP  MEMORY. 

Of  doubt  or  fear  but  the  world  will  prove 
All  one  desires,  as  onward  we  move ; 


But  mixed  with  the  seeds  of  honest  doubt 
Whether  our  plans  will  be  carried  out; 
And  whether  there's  more  of  pleasure  or  pain, 
Even  when  our  best  hopes  we  proudly  attain. 

The  joyous  enthusiasm  of  youth 
Is  gone — but  replaced  by  the  riper  truth 
Of  sober  and  well-earned  experience; 
And  we  look  011  life's  failures  with  lenience. 

The  youthful  glamour  no  longer  deceives; 
Life's  earnest  endeavor  no  longer  leaves 
Us  time  in  a  fanciful  world  to  live : 
For  to  our  life's  work  each  thought  we  must 
give. 

When   our  heads   like  the  "almond  tree  shall 

flourish," 

And  plans  for  this  world  no  longer  we  cherish — 
May  our  lives  be  like  a  well-linked  chain, 
As  memory  goes  back  to  trace  them  again. 

And  when,  at  the  last,  the  "silver  cord 
Is  loosed,"  and  we  go  to  our  reward — 
May  some  noble  deed  we  did  while  here 
To  our  jeweled  crown  add  one  brilliant  more. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  119 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

DEAR  baby  Ethlyn, 

My  wee,  sweet  flower ! 
Thy  memory,  even, 

Is  a  priceless  dower. 
Ere  thou  wert  born 

I  loved  thee  well; 
Like  the  light  of  morn 

Thy  coming  fell 
Across  our  way, 

A  rosy  light, 
For  a  brief  stay  — 

Then  all  was  night. 

And  bitter  at  first 

Our  heart-aches  were ; 
A  hunger  and  thirst 

Our  souls  did  stir, 
For  a  love  as  sweet 

As  the  roses'  breath : 
It  did  not  seem  meet 

That  thou,  0  death, 
Shouldst  claim  so  soon 

Our  birdling  dear — 
The  lovely  bloom 

Which  would  so  cheer 

Our  lonely  hearts. 
But  now,  at  last, 
Though  the  teardrop  starts, 
The  bitter  is  past : 


120  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

For,  in  gardens  fairer, 

Our  flowret  is  blooming, 
And  a  love,  much  rarer 

Than  of  our  bestowing, 
Is  given  to  her 

In  that  realm  of  light — 
And  we  cannot  demur 

At  her  spirit's  flight. 


CONTRAST. 

EVEN  as  I  hear  the  wild  winds  blow, 

Tossing  the  restless,  shifting  snow, 

Hurling  it  hard  'gainst  the  window  pane, 

Dashing  it  here  and  thither  again, 

Moaning  and  howling  where'er  they  go : 

In  contrast  sweet,  there  comes  a  scene 

Of  verdant  meads  and  forests  green, 

Fragrant  flowers  and  song  of  birds, 

Flowing  waters  and  lowing  herds — 

All  the  beauty  of  summer's  sheen. 

I  see  again  the  deep  blue  skies, 

Fair  as  a  maiden's  azure  eyes; 

And  hear  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees, 

Or  gentle  swaying  of  the  trees, 

As  through  their  leaves  the  south  wind  sighs. 

O  can  this  be  the  same  glad  world, 
Now  the  storm  king  fierce  has  hurled 


TWIN  LAKES.  121 

All  his  furious,  biting  blast 

'Gainst  our  beauteous  scene?  and  vast 

Storms  and  tempests  he  has  unfurled? 

And  so,  when  the  storms  of  life  beat  hard 

Upon  the  thoughtful,  sensitive  bard, 

He  wonders  at  the  glorious  dreams 

That  came  to  him  with  morning's  beams  — 

Waving,  beckoning  him  fancy- ward; 

And  muses  long  on  the  mystery 

Of  life's  ever-changing  history — 

The  subtle  workings  of  love  and  joy, 

And  bitter  cares  which  so  annoy, 

Later  on,  upon  life's  rough  sea. 

He  knows  that  in  some  way  the  earth's  renewed 

By  the  frost,  and  snow,  and  tempests  rude; 

And  that  summer  skies  will  come  once  more 

With  beauty  and  gladness  as  before  — 

And  all  our  way  with  flowers  be  strewed. 

Then,  when  our  mental  sky  is  o'ercast 

By  troubles  dark,  and  angry  blast, 

Let  us  endure;  and  cherish  the  thought 

That  out  of  it  all  some  good  will  be  wrought— 

And  wintry  storms  will  not  always  last. 


TWIN  LAKES. 

VISITED  AUGUST  10,  1877. 

TWIN  sisters — recluses! 
Fit  founts  for  the  Muses, 
Or  fair  water-sprite, 

16 


122  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Are  thy  cool  waters  bright. 
Around  thy  sacred  quiet 
Spirits  of  beauty  riot. 
"White  mountain  peaks,  and  cold, 
In  stately  grandeur,  hold 
Their  constant  silent  watches  — 
Guarding  thy  lovely  couches. 

They  are  vigilant  warders 
Around  thy  green  borders  — 
Whose  cares  never  slack; 
And  you  pay  them  back 
By  reflecting  their  fairness 
Within  your  own  clearness; 
E'en  their  purple  and  gold 
Your  limpid  waters  mold 
Into  beauty  fairer, 
And  a  grandeur  rarer : 

As  thy  sun-kissed  surface 

Mirrors  back  the  surplus 

Of  beauty  the  sky  bestowed, 

And  fleecy,  sun-lined  cloud; 

And  the  sun's  own  brilliance, 

From  thy  deep  waters,  hence, 

Scatters  in  golden  beams, 

Till  the  scene  like  heaven  seems, 

As  slowly  in  our  boat, 

We  glide  o'er  these  waters  remote. 

Around,  above,  below, 

Visions  of  beauty  glow, 

As  in  one's  brightest  dream  — 

And  silence  reigns  supreme. 


THE  CITIES'  POOR.  123 


THE  CITIES'  POOR. 

WRITTEN  AFTER  READING  A  SPEECH  BY  HON.  T.  B.  STUART, 
OF  DENVER,  COL.,  ENTITLED  "THE  WORKER'S  SITUATION." 

I. 

'Tis  dawn !  The  heart  of  the  great  city  beats 
"With  quick'ning  pulse,  that  has  a  few  hours  stayed 
Its  restless  throbbings.     In  gray  and  misty  dawn 
The  light  contends  with  darkness,  work  with  rest. 
In  musty  cellar,  and  in  dingy  loft, 
The  weary  toilers  of  the  city  wake 
To  renew  again  the  hard,  unequal  fight 
Of  labor  'gainst  the  grim  wolf  at  the  door. 
Pallid  and  careworn,  in  the  dim  March  light, 
They  eat  their  scanty  meal,  and  then  betake 
Themselves,  unrested,  to  their  daily  toil  — 
Thin-clad  and  pinched  for  want  of  fire  and  food. 
A  father  and  his  son — a  lad  of  twelve, 
Sad-eyed,  and  grown  much  older  than  his  years — 
Go  down  into  the  jetty  mines  of  coal, 
Where,  early  and  late,  denied  the  blessed  sun, 
They  labor  hard  for  a  mere  paltry  sum, 
On  which  to  eke  a  poor  existence  out. 
A  widow  with  a  little,  helpless  brood, 
Trudges  along  through  damp  and  smoky  air, 
To  leave  the  children  at  a  "  nursery  farm," 
While  she  by  factory  work  their  living  earns; 
Treading  the  weary  way  again  at  night, 
To  take  them  to  her  dismal  upper  room. 
Another  less  self-sacrificing  one 
Turns  them  with  a  crust  into  the  street; 


124  EDDIES   OP  MEMORY. 

For  safer  there  she  deems  her  little  ones, 
Than  locked  in  their  own  old,  rickety  room. 
The  street's  poor  nursery  for  these  little  waifs  — 
No  wonder  that  they  learn  deceit  and  sin. 
And  all  day  long  these  mothers  toil  for  bread 
With  weary  hands,  and  heads  and  hearts  that  ache. 
Young  women,  and  little  girls  of  even  eight, 
Sit  all  day  long  at  toil  unfit  for  youth  — 
Like  flowers  blighted  ere  'tis  time  to  bloom — 
Grown  old  and  haggard  at  the  spool  and  loom, 
For  just  enough  to  poorly  live  upon. 

n. 

Can  you  wonder  at  the  muttered  discontent, 
The  lowering  cloud  grown  darker  with  the  years  — 
The  ills  of  these  poor  people  giving  vent 
In  mobs  and  strikes,  in  curses  and  in  tears? 
The  crowded  city's  poor,  so  poorly  fed  — 
Can  they  be  freemen,  while  they're  slaves  for  bread? 
Would  they,  like  valiant  soldiers,  fight  for  homes, 
When  they  have  none  but  dim  and  dusty  rooms  ?  — 
Be  leal  and  loyal  to  their  country's  flag, 
When  they  for  clothes  have  but  a  flimsy  rag? 
Can  we  a  nation  build  that's  strong  and  great, 
When  the  foundation  stones  are  in  this  state? 
The  top  must  totter  when  the  base  decays; 
And  he  who  would  build  strongly  first  lays 
The  true  and  firm  foundation  —  then  he  builds 
With  ease  and  certainty  against  all  ills. 
While  rich  our  land  in  acres  broad  and  deep, 
Shall  these  lack  homes,  and  in  confusion  steep 


THE  CITIES'  POOR.  125 

Our  country,  boasted  free?     Shall  English  earls, 
Or  corporate  bodies,  or  old,  wealthy  churls, 
In  large  estates,  our  glorious  country  hold, 
"While  millions  of  our  poor,  in  want  untold, 
Have  not  a  foot  of  ground  to  call  their  own  ? 
Then,  truly,  the  glory  of  our  land  is  flown. 
Awake,  fair  land!  Columbia  wake,  and  claim 
Your  lawful  right  of  "eminent  domain!" 
Give  each  a  home  on  these  broad  prairies  green, 
And  this  the  picture  that  will  then  be  seen : 
Let  stout   and  well-paid  hands   both   spin   and 

weave, 

But  give  the  million  weaklings  sweet  reprieve; 
And  let  the  factory's  poor  and  pallid  ones 
Seek  the  green  fields,  and  cheering,  bright'ning 

suns. 

The  season  may  be  spring — the  morning  damp; 
They  rise  at  dawn,  but  not  to  chill  and  cramp; 
You  hear  them  singing;  for  their  cheerful  toil 
Speaks  more  of  lusty  life  than  hard  turmoil. 
The  father  yokes  his  oxen;  while  the  son — 
The  once  pale  lad,  grown  stout,  and  brown  with 

tan — 

Attends  the  cow,  and  carries  the  brimming  pail 
Into  the  humble  home;  where  the  once  frail 
And  weary  mother,  freshened  by  pure  air, 
Bestirs  herself  with  breakfast's  dainty  fare — 
The  rich,  sweet  milk,  and  eggs  just  newly  lain, 
And  bread  as  smooth  and  white  as  porcelain. 
The  meal  dispatched,  they  hasten  to  their  work — 
But  not  through  sloppy  street,  or  city's  smoke — 


126  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

Past  green  wheat  fields,  where  birds  are  singing- 
loud, 

To  black,  rich  soil  all  ready  to  be  plowed; 
The  sun's  bright  rays  dispelling  fast  the  dew, — 
All  form  a  scene  to  them  so  bright  and  new, 
They  wonder  if  Aladdin's  lamp  they've  found, 
And  now  are  living  on  enchanted  ground. 
Across  the  way,  the  widow  and  her  girls, 
With  cheeks  now  blooming,  and  with  tossy  curlsr 
Attend  the  poultry  and  their  small-fruit  patch ; 
Or  train  the  morning-glories  o'er  the  thatch. 
Instead  of  the  mill's  incessant  click-clack, 
The  happy  hens  sing, "  Cut-cut,  cut-cut,  cut-tack;  " 
And  the  guineas  chime  in,  "  Pot-rack,  buckwheat, 

pot-rack." 

They  breathe,  instead  of  greasy,  smoky  air, 
Odor  of  fresh-turned  earth  and  flowers  fair; 
And  hail  with  joy  the  copious  spring  showers, 
That  fill  the  earth  with  gladness  and  with  flowers. 
Is  not  this  scene  of  pleasant,  thrifty  toil, 
Happier  far  than  the  great  city's  moil  ? 
And  they  who  in  the  factories  have  stayed 
Are  better  off,  because  they're  better  paid ; 
"While  thousands,  who  once  toiled  to  gain  their 

bread, 

And  went  half  clad  and  homeless,  poorly  fed, 
Have  plenty  now,  and  some  to  spare  instead. 
With  homes  that  are  their  own,  and  grown  so  dear. 
The  Nation,  for  her  safety,  need  not  fear; 
For  if  she  ever  needs  strong,  loyal  hands, 
She'll  find  them  in  these  sons  who  till  the  lands. 


SONGS  THAT  WILL  LIVE.  127 

BALANCE  ROCK,  COLORADO. 

THOU  giant  rock, 
So  neatly  balanced  between  earth  and  sky ! 

What  fateful  shock 
Left  thee  a  wonder  to  the  passers  by  ? 

How  many  centuries  hast  thou  withstood 

The  ravages  of  time,  and  wind,  and  flood? 

And  what  will  be  the  power  to  make  thee  yield  — 

To  lay  thou  proud  head  low  upon  the  field? 

Or  art  so  evenly  balanced,  after  all, 

That  man  nor  time  shall  ever  see  thee  fall  ? 

O  mortal,  balanced  between  right  and  wrong, 

Resist  all  influence,  however  strong, 

To  topple  thee  from  manhood's  towering  height 

Into  the  dust  and  debris,  far  from  sight! 

And  pray  for  power  to  discriminate 

The  circumstance  which  weakens  thy  estate — 

"Whether  it  be  a  power  small  or  great — 

And  changes,  e'en  for  life  and  death,  thy  fate. 


SONGS  THAT  WILL  LIVE. 

No  GLITTERING  array  of  idle  words, 
Though  musical  as  the  song  of  birds, 

Can  e'er  attract  the  busy  herds 
Of  men  who  labor  hard  to  gain 
The  summit  of  this  earthly  fane, 

And  have  no  time  for  many  words. 


128  EDDIES  OF  MEMORY. 

But  thoughts  that  glow  with  warmth  and  firer 
Inspiring  men  to  climb  still  higher, 

And  on  the  rugged  path  ne'er  tire;  — 
These  are  the  words  that  true  help  give, 
And  these  the  songs  that  long  will  live, 

After  all  lighter  ones  expire. 

If  thou  hast  a  yearning,  then, 

To  live  in  the  hearts  of  thy  fellow-men, 

Make  real  and  useful  what  you  pen; 
Fill  every  picture  with  the  fire  and  glow 
Of  thoughts  and  emotions  that  overflow 

Your  own  soul's  inmost  ken. 

The  sympathy  and  help  which  most  are  prized 
Come  from  those  who  have  realized 

The  same  great  joy,  or  the  agonized 
Sense  of  suffering  and  bitter  loss, 
"Which  separates  the  gold  from  dross  — 

Comfort  like  this  is  well  assized. 

Then,  with  truth  and  all  sincerity, 
In  meekness  and  simplicity, 

And  yet  not  with  timidity, 
Sing  the  songs  of  joy  and  gladness, 
And  the  soft  refrains  of  sadness — 

Give  to  each  heart  sympathy. 


LOVE  PURIFIED. 

My  object  in  writing  this  not  altogether  fanciful  sketch, 
has  been  to  warn  my  own  sex  from  the  sin  to  which  she  is 
most  easily  prone — idolatry  of  loved  ones  and  beautiful 
surroundings.  And,  while  I  have  instanced  one  blessed 
with  the  greatest  luxuries  of  life,  it  may  be  very  nearly  as 
applicable  to  those  in  the  humbler  walks  of  life,  as  it  is  a 
passion  which  the  circumstances  and  ideas  of  the  present 
day  seem  to  cultivate  and  intensify  in  all.  Hence  I  dedi 
cate  this  — 

To  Woman — purest,  fairest  of  creation  — 

The  blessing  or  the  blight  of  ev'ry  station ! 
Beloved  of  God,  and  angels,  and  of  men ; 
O  see  that  thou  love  purely,  wisely,  then ! 

CELESTE  MAY. 


LOVE  PURIFIED. 

T'WAS  on  a  spot  as  fair  as  e'er  the  sun 

In  all  his  warmth  and  splendor  shone  upon 

The  young  bride  found  her  pleasant  future  home, 

Prepared  by  loving  hands,  ere  she  should  come. 

Its   marble   walls   stood   glist'ning  through  the 

green 

Of  tropic  trees,  while  fountain  sprays  were  seen 
Scattering  their  sparkling  diamonds  o'er  a  lawn 
Which  rivaled,  in  its  brightness,  glorious  dawn. 
17 


130  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

A  range  of  mountains,  in  the  distance,  lay 
In  gold  and  purple  shadows'  bright  array; 
The  lucid  waters  of  a  lake,  serene, 
Were  gleaming,  in  the  sunshine  white,  between; 
And  air  as  fragrant  as  the  flowers'  breath 
Pervaded  all  the  place :  above,  beneath, 
"Wherever  one  might  look- — the  spirit  fair, 
Of  love  and  beauty,  had  its  dwelling  there. 

To  Laura,  loved  and  loving,  it  all  seemed 
To  far  surpass  all  she  had  ever  dreamed — 
E'en  in  her  girlish  and  most  lavish  dreams  — 
Of  elegance  combined  with  beauteous  scenes. 
And  it  was  hers — the  gift  of  priceless  love !  — 
O  dared  a  spirit  not  yet  gone  above 
Revel  in  beauty  and  a  perfect  love?  — 
For  she,  though    gently    reared,  had    yet  been 

taught, 

With  Puritanic  strictness,  that  the  thought 
Must  soar  above  all  earthly  loves,  lest  aught 
Of  worship  for  them  bring  one's  hopes  to  naught; 
And,  that  'twas  virtue,  when  the  soul  acquired 
Strength  to  refuse  the  things  it  most  desired, 
No  matter  what  they  were — e'en  half  inspired. 
Heroic,  but  a  rigid,  austere  creed, 
Sav'ring  too  much  of  the  self-penance  deed 
Of  old,  ascetic  monks,  of  whom  we  read. 

And  Laura,  all  her  life,  had  been  at  war 

With  this,  which  seemed  her  great  besetting  sin : 

The  love  of  beauty,  seen  in  earth  or  star, 


LOVE  PURIFIED.  131 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  cloud,  or  in 

The  bright,  sweet  flowers,  which  many  a  rough 

place 

Soften  and  smooth  by  their  bewitching  grace, 
A  perfect  face  or  beautiful  attire  — 
All  seemed  to  satisfy  that  inward  fire 
"Which  burned  within  her  heart,  without  desire 
Or  envious  longing  to  possess  them  all ; 
0  could  she,  by  so  pure  a  love,  e'en  fall  ? 
In  vain  herself  she  chided — it  was  born 
Within  her;  she  could  not  uproot  this  thorn. 
A  simple  child  of  nature — one  withal 
Too  rarely  found !  and  now,  by  love's  sweet  thrall, 
She  finds  the  grandeur  of  the  earth  her  own; 
And  what  is  dearer  far  to  her  than  all, 
The  noble  love  of  one  fit  for  a  throne. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  at  the  first  a  dread 
Lest  all  this  beauty  turn  her  heart  and  head 
Should  cast  a  shadow  o'er  her  happy  brow : 
For    "  Coming    events,    before,    their    shadows 

throw." 

'Twas  not  the  nature  of  a  mind  like  this 
To  long  withstand  the  influence  of  such  bliss  — 
Where  e'en  the  fragrant  air  seemed  heaven's  kiss. 
Her  innate  love  of  beauty  so  intense, 
Her  early  training  was  but  poor  defense; 
And,  half  in  fear,  and  half  in  defiance, 
She  thought:  "Why  did  God  such  beauty  then 

bestow, 
If  'tis  so  great  a  sin  to  love  it  so? 


132  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

And  why  this  world  He  with  such  beauty  clothes, 

If  not  to  be  admired  and  loved  by  those 

Who  dwell  upon  it?" — and  thus  deeper  stole 

Into  her  heart  the  idol  of  her  soul. 

Ah !  happier  had  it  been  for  her,  by  far, 

If  still  she  worshiped  beauty  from  afar, 

"With  no  indulgence  or  excess  to  mar 

So  fine  an  ideal  of  true  beauty's  star. 

But  lulled  by  bliss,  and  love,  and  sweet  repose, 

Slowly,  but  surely,  she  more  careless  grows 

Of  the  true  worship,  which  should  ever  flow 

To  the  Creator  of  our  gifts,  and  glow 

High  above  every  other  love  we  know. 

Her  energy  and  being  concentrate 

On  making  her  already  blest  estate 

Happier  still,  and  still  more  enchanting, 

By  adding  every  charm  of  artist's  skill, 

To  touch  the  sense  of  beauty  by  their  thrill ; 

Or  her  own  potent  charm  still  more  enhancing, 

To  make  the  love  she  knows  already  hers 

Hers  indissolubly,  by  all  that  stirs 

The  heart  to  admiration,  and  endears. 

And  thus  the  sweet  idolatry  enthralls 

Ere  she's  aware,  who  by  its  spell  thus  falls 

Into  forgetfulness  of  former  things, 

As    deep    and    sure    as    draughts    from    Lethe 

brings;  — 

Yet  her  enchantment  should  be  likened  more 
To  eating  the  sweet  fruit  the  Lotus  bore, 
Instead  of  dark  draughts  from  the  infernal  shore. 


LOVE  PURIFIED.  133 

Months,  years,  elapse;  and,  though  the  fear 
That  all  this  wealth  of  pleasure,  grown  so  dear, 
Would  sometime  have  an  end,  came  far  too  near 
For  peace  of  mind  or  comfort,  'twas  banished  ere 
One  earnest  thought  had  left  its  impress  there. 
Until  at  last,  by  sickness  smitten  down, 
The  lovely,  placid  brow  by  pain  is  drawn, 
And  all  sweet  sounds  and  beauty  cannot  drown 
The  saddened  thoughts  that  on  her  mind  now 

dawn; 

But  not  through  selfishness  this  sadness  came — 
Too  pure  for  that,  e'en  yet,  her  spirit's  flame — 
But  O,  a  heart  and  home  left  desolate, 
"Where    love   had    reigned  supreme  —  too   cruel 

fate! 

A  yearning,  tender  pity  filled  her  heart, 
Like  angels  feel,  who  from  the  heavens  dart, 
On  errands  of  mercy  to  poor  mortals  sent — 
To  comfort  and  console,  their  sweet  intent; 
'Twas  thus  her  heart — though  just  upon  the  rim 
Of  ceaseless,  unknown  shores — turned  now  to 

him 

Whose  cup  of  sorrow's  filled  e'en  to  the  brim, 
And  wishes  she  might  stay  to  comfort  him. 

She  did  not  worry  about  her  own  state, 
Though,  so  indifferent,  she  had  been  of  late 
To  all  she  had  been  taught  to  venerate; 
For  had  she  not,  e'en  in  her  infancy, 
Been  taught  to  love  and  reverence  Deity, 
And  dream  of  long  and  blessed  eternity, 


134  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

Until  it  was,  to  her,  a  natural  trait 

To  think  of  heaven's  joys  as  her  own  right? 

And  now,  the  light  of  life  was  going  out, 

She  would  not  let  a  flitting,  ill-timed  doubt 

Her  life-long  hopes  and  expectations  blight. 

In  all  her  fond,  ambitious  wandering, 

She  never  to  herself  dared  intimate 

That  God  she  was  no  longer  worshiping, 

But  at  a  shrine  she  did  herself  create  — 

A  beautiful,  but  transient,  earthly  fane, 

Which  brought  her,  now,  no  strength'ning  for 

the  pain 

Of  threat'ning  dissolution,  and  the  parting 
From  all  her  earthly  loves;  so,  once  again, 
She  turns  her  mind  to  Him,  who,  in  her  youth 
Had  been  to  her  the  Essence  of  all  Truth; 
And  tries  to  summon  back  that  restful  faith, 
To  give  her  strength  to  meet  death's  dreaded 

wraith. 

Ah !  such  is  ever  sinful  man's  presumption, 
Based  on  the  loving,  holy  Christ's  redemption  : 
While  health  and  beauty  lavishly  are  given, 
He  turns  his  thoughts  to  all  else  but  to  heaven; 
But  when  affliction's  icy  hand  he  feels, 
And  the  warm  blood,  slowly,  in  his  veins  congeals, 
He  quickly  turns  his  thoughts  to  the  Rock  riven 
That  all  his  wanderings  might  be  forgiven; 
That  great  and  loving  Heart  that  ever  feels 
A  throb  of  sympathy  for  man,  and  seals 
Our  pardon,  through  the  leniency  of  Heaven. 


LOVE  PURIFIED.  135 

'Tis  growing  dark!  and  she  no  longer  feels 
The  loving  touch  and  pressure  of  the  hand 
Of  that  dear  one,  who  by  the  bedside  kneels. 
She  tries  to  speak,  but  can  no  longer  make 
A  word  or  wish  of  hers  articulate 
To  loving  years  of  those  who  vainly  try 
Her  ev'ry  whispered  word  to  understand. 
She  hears  the  sweep  of  angels'  wings  close  by, 
And  thinks,  "They've  come  to  bear  me  to  the 

sky."  _ 

Sweet  music — faint  and  far,  then  coming  near — 
Seems  wafted  to  her  from  the  heavenly  sphere, 
Richer  than  ever  mortal  ears  could  hear. 
An  intense  yearning  fills  her  soul  to  go 
Where  she  that  perfect  harmony,  too,  shall  know, 
And  revel  ever  in  its  melodious  flow : 
Surely  one  need  not  look  on  death  with  dread — 
They  were  the  living,  we  on  earth  the  dead. 
An  icy  numbness  all  her  senses  drank — 
A  sigh,  a  shiver,  and  then  all  was  blank. 

Long  hours  have  elapsed,  and  she  again 
Awakes  to  consciousness;  but  there's  no  pen 
Or  words  to  tell  the  awful,  burning  pain, 
Or  fancies  of  that  fever-maddened  brain. 
'Instead  of  heavenly  vistas,  brighly  glowing, 
Through  which  the  limpid  water  of  life  is  flow 
ing,  ^ 

And  glorious  strains  from  angel  voices  sweet, 
And  golden    pavements   'neath    her    trembling 
feet — 


136  LOVE   PURIFIED. 

Instead  of  glories  she  had  hoped  to  see 
Upon  the  vast  shores  of  eternity, 
Of  which  she  just  had  caught  a  glimmering, 
As  of  alight  on  crystal  waters  shimmering — 
Accustomed  things  appear  unto  her  eyes, 
Although  to  shut  them  out,  in  vain,  she  tries. 
For,  vividly,  she  remembers  she  had  died — 
Had  bade,  to  each,  a  last  and  fond  farewell  — 
Had  heard  the  rushing  wings  of  Azrael ; 
And  had  he,  all  these  hours,  so  vainly  tried 
To  waft  her  soul  away  from  earthly-tide  ? 
The  needed  mystic  word  had  not  been  given, 
Which  plumes  the  soul  for  its  swift  flight  to 
heaven. 


And  now,  the  burning  pain  in  limbs  and  brain 

Tells,  all  too  plainly,  that  the  soul  again 

Is  close  allied  to  suff'ring,  moldering  clay; 

And  that,  of  all  heaven's  brightness,  not  a  ray 

Could  ever  o'er  her  sinful  being  stray. 

It  seemed  the  home,  on  which  she  once  had  spent 

Her  ev'ry  thought  and  energy  intent  — 

Her  all  of  love  and  worship — was  to  be, 

In  spite  of  longing  prayers  to  heaven  sent, 

Her  only  home  through  all  eternity. 

Her  fate  was  horrible;  oblivion  sweet 
Compared  to  punishment  like  this,  so  meet: 
Forever  dying,  yet  not  to  die,  her  doom ; 
Chained,  soul  and  body,  to  this  favorite  room; 


LOVE  PURIFIED.  137 

Hideous  and  loathsome,  ever  lying  there, 
A  stagnant  blot  upon  the  once  pure  air 
Of  home — a  clog  to  him  she'd  held  so  dear. 
The  bitterness  of  her  lot  was  made  more  keen 
By  the  glimpses  of  fair  heaven  she  had  seen. 

A  creature  neither  fit  for  earth  nor  heaven  — 

To  whom  no  burial,  even,  could  be  given! 

The  home  and  friends  that  she  had  loved  too 

much, 

She  feared  would  be  polluted  by  her  touch, 
And  tried,  in  vain,  to  hide  away  from  sight, 
Longing  for  power  to  flee  in  the  dark  night, 
And  in  the  cool,  clear  waters,  far  away, 
Her  anguished,  fevered  body  grateful  lay; 
Content  to  lie  there  and  forgotten  be 
Through  all  the  cycles  of  eternity, 
If,  in  this  way,  her  loved  ones  she  might  free. 

O  that  the  earth  beneath  her  would  be  riven, 
And  hide  her  from  the  sight  of  home  and  Heaven  — 
To  which  she  dared  not  pray  to  be  forgiven ! 
For   when   life's   current  warm   her  pulse   had 

thrilled, 

And  joy  and  pleasure's  cup  had  e'en  been  filled 
To  overflowing,  how  careless  she  had  grown 
In  sending  petitions  to  a  heavenly  throne; 
And  now  to  pray  seemed  mockery,  akin 
To  vilest  and  most  sacrilegious  sin. 
The  voluptuous  pleasures  of  her  home,  too  well 
She  loved  —  and  thus,  in  blindly  loving,  fell. 
18 


138  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

The  idol  of  her  heart  had  been  her  home; 
Now,  dead  and  living  both,  it  was  her  tomb. 

And  thus,  for  weary  weeks  she  lay  and  tossed, 
Thinking  herself  a  spirit  doomed  and  lost. 
Remorse  stirred  deep  within  her  troubled  breast — 
So  weary,  yet  she  never  hoped  for  rest: 
For,  ever  and  again  her  mind  went  back 
To  "Heaven  lost  because  of  faith  so  slack." 
The  good  things  God  had  loaned  her  to  be  used, 
She  had,  through  blind  idolatry,  abused. 
How  plainly,  now,  she  saw  the  narrow  way, 
From  which,  by  flowers,  she'd  been  led  astray. 
O  if  she  could  but  bathe  her  burning  brow 
In  the  cool  waters  that  through  Eden  flow, 
Or  look  one  moment  on  the  living  tree 
That  gives  to  all  blest  immortality, 
Gladly  she'd  give  up  now  all  past  delight, 
For  just  one  glimpse  of  this  fair,  heavenly  sight, 
That  to  her  longing  heart  seems  to  enhance, 
Now  she  shall  never  view  its  vast  expanse. 

In  her  sad  state  of  mental  aberration 
/  One  attribute  of  God  she  had  forgotten  — 
His  wondrous  love — until  the  sweet  narration 
Of  the  forgiving  words  the  Christ  had  spoken 
Unto  the  dying  thief,  who  at  His  side, 
Repentant,  turned  to  Him,  the  Crucified — 
Dawned  on  her  mind,  as  she  lay  deeply  thinking 
Upon  God's  awful  justice,  so  unshrinking; 
And  quickly  o'er  the  twilight  darkness  came 


LOVE  PURIFIED.  139 

A  faint  but  steady  light  of  reason's  flame, 

Enabling  her  to  think  with  more  precision 

Upon  God's  revelation  unto  man; 

And  there  came  thronging  to  her  mental  vision 

The  instances  which  through  the  Bible  ran 

Of   wondrous,   mighty    things    that   Faith   had 

wrought — 

That  loving,  entire  faith  which  ever  brought 
Fulfillment  of  the  blessing  it  had  sought. 
What  God  had  done,  would  He  not  do  again? 
Could  He  not  speak  the  word,  and  give  her,  then, 
]STew  life  —  e'en  had  she  died  a  hundred  times? 
And  Faith  reechoed,  "Yea,  a  hundred  times!" 
And  with  the  rest  this  trustful  feeling  brings 
Come  natural  thoughts  of  man  and  earthly  things. 
Faith,  talismanic  word  —  the  Christian's  sun  — 
Dispelled  the  dark'ning  shadows  that  had  run 
Through   all   her   fancies;    again   bright  reason 

shone 

Where  long  it  had  been  tottering  on  its  throne, 
Enshrouded  by  a  self-accusing  gloom; 
And  reawakened  memory  clearly  came, 
Lighting  her  mind  with  its  resplendent  flame  — 
She  knew  it  all  had  been  a  feverish  dream, 
Through  which   awakened   conscience   shed  its 

gleam ; 

Aud  that  it  never,  yet,  had  been  God's  plan, 
In  such  a  way,  to  punish  sinful  man. 

And  yet  she  shuddered,  when  she  thought  again 
Of  all  those  dreadful  phantoms  of  the  brain ; 


140  LOVE   PURIFIED. 

And  how  much  she  had  needed  the  lesson  taught, 
Though  by  such  bitter,  direful  chast'ning  wrought. 
Henceforth  her  faith  more  steadfastly  should  shine 
Through  all  she  did;  and  love  and  faith  divine, 
Produce  good  works — rich  fruit  from  the  true 

vine. 

A  prayer  of  thanksgiving  from  her  heart  arose, 
Like  none  but  the  truly  chastened  spirit  knows. 
Hope,  that  eternal  anchor  of  souls,  shines  through 
Her  soul,  as  she  consecrates  her  life  anew 
To  God,  the  Just  One,  and  the  Loving,  too. 

Impatiently  she  waits  the  coming,  now, 

Of  loved  ones  lately  met  with  moody  brow; 

And  at  whose  footsteps,  now,  her  pulses  bound 

With  happiness,  and  love  and  life  new-found. 

One  brief  but  loving  glance  tells  all  the  tale  — 

That  she  no  longer  dwells  within  the  vale; 

Not  only  reason's  light,  within  her  face, 

But  radiant  joy  reflected,  they  can  trace, 

As  if  it  came  direct  from  heavenly  grace. 

O,  if  to  mortals  here  there  e'er  is  given 

A  foretaste  of  the  light  and  love  of  heaven, 

'  Tis  given  them,  as,  back  from  the  shadowy  place, 

They  hold  their  loved  once  more  in  their  embrace — 

More  beautiful  than  ever,  as  the  grace 

Of  chastened  love  shines  from  her  pale,  sweet  face. 

And  she !  —  no  pardon  to  the  guilty  man 
Who's  saved  from  hanging  by  the  merest  span 
Of  seconds,  ever  made  him  happier  than 


LOVE  PURIFIED.  141 

This  sweet,  new  lease  of  life  does  her;  there  thrills 

A  loving  sympathy  for  all  the  ills 

And  sinfulness  of  man,  within  her  heart; 

For  she,  too,  of  it  all  has  had  her  part, 

And  feels  related  close  to  human  woe, 

In  every  phase  that  mortals  ever  know. 

Her  life,  henceforth,  shall  be  a  life  of  love, 

But  not  like  that  from  which  she's  just  been  shrove. 

She  knows,  now,  that  the  gifts  that  God  has  given 

Are  ours  to  love,  but  cannot  be  our  heaven; 

And  must  not  come  between  our  love  for  Him 

Before  whom  all  must  bow — e'en  seraphim; 

~Nor  give  the  creature  what  belongs  alone 

To  the  Creator,  sitting  on  His  throne. 


And  now,  her  mind  at  peace,  the  body,  too, 
Erelong  regains  its  wonted  healthy  hue, 
And  she's  permitted  once  again  to  breathe 
The  outdoor  air;  and  stand  in  awe  beneath 
The  great,  clear  vault  of  heaven,  whose  tender  blue 
Seems  smiling  down  upon  her  with  a  new 
And  purer  love.     '  Tis  now  the  sweet  spring-tide, 
And  clear  voiced  birds  are  singing  far  and  wide; 
"While  ev'ry  tree  and  shrub  new  beauty  wears  — 
Their  bloss'ming  fragrance  borne  on  balmy  airs 
Like  incense  sweet.     Earth  never  seemed  so  fair 
To  her,  as  now  that  she  sees  everywhere 
The  hand  that  made  it  all  so  bright  and  fair. 
She  loves  the  world,  and  all  that  is  within, 
With  love  made  pure,  by  suffering,  from  sin. 


142  LOVE  PURIFIED. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  MRS.  S- 


A  PRICELESS  treasure  is  given  to  thee — 

A  jewel  bright  and  rare; 
A  cherub  from  the  heavenly  sea, 

With  azure  eyes  and  fair. 

'Tis  right  that  you  should  highly  prize  it- 

'Twas  given  thee  to  love; 
Be  careful  not  to  idolize  it  — 

This  darling,  cooing  dove. 

And  I,  dear  friend,  rejoice  with  thee 

In  this  thy  new-found  joy; 
May  the  jewel  long  be  loaned  to  thee  — 

This  darling,  precious  boy. 

And  when  he  grows  to  man's  estate, 

Most  useful  may  he  be ! 
Fulfilling  the  fond  hopes,  elate, 

Of  thy  dear  maternity. 


TO  THE  SAME, 

UPON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  CHILD. 

YOUR  grief,  for  a  time,  seemed  my  own,  dear 

friend, 

And  I  longed  with  your  own  my  tears  to  blend, 
For  a  love  and  a  life  too  bright  to  end. 
To  end  did  I  say? — 0  'tis  just  begun; 
In  a  purer  sphere  shall  his  course  be  run, 


AT  LAST.  143 

Unfettered  by  time,  with  its  cares  and  fears, 
Its  hopes  and  ambitions,  and  bitter  tears; 
These,  fond  mother  are  spared  thy  son. 

Your  flower  will  unfold  in  gardens  above, 
Watered  and  nourished  by  the  Fountain  of  Love, 
Sheltered  securely,  and  never  to  rove. 
The  life,  that  gave  promise  of  being  so  fair, 
Schooled  in  heaven — what  height  may  it  attain 

there ! 
Much  better   God's   school   than    our  best,  you 

know; 

Then  check  the  wild  grief,  and  the  tears  that  flow, 
And  think  of  the  glory  to  which  he  is  heir. 

Of  lone,  empty  arms,  I,  too,  know  the  grief — 
A  bright  jewel  loaned  for  a  space  so  brief — 
A  joy  snatched  away  that  seemed  almost  chief 
Of  the  joys  of  life;  yet  I've  learned  to  see 
It  was  all  for  the  best  for  her  and  me. 
Thy  will,  Gracious  Lord  —  may  thy  will  be  done! 
And  bring  us,  at  last,  through  Thy  Glorious  One, 
To  join  all  our  loved  ones,  and  dwell  with  Thee. 


AT  LAST. 

THERE  will  come  a  morning 

On  which  the  sun  will  rise, 
In  wonted  glory  crowning 


144  LOVE  PUKIFIED. 

The  hills  and  fields  and  skies; 
But  to  its  beauties,  thronging, 
Fast  closed  will  be  our  eyes. 

Our  work  will  lie  undone, 
Unless  by  others  wrought; 

Even  when  high  the  sun, 

There'll  come  no  care  or  thought; 

The  well-trod  paths  we've  run 
Must  be  by  others  sought. 

Unheeding  all  the  calls 

Of  duty  and  of  love, 
Held  in  death's  icy  thralls, 

We'll  lie,  and  cannot  move, 
No  matter  what  befalls 

Those  we  have  served  in  love. 

Happy  for  us,  if  then 

A  brighter  dawn  shall  rise, 

Than  known  to  mortal  ken, 
Or  viewed  by  mortal  eyes; 

And  we  awake  again 

'i^eath  heaven's  glorious  skies. 

Happy  if  life's  garment 

Was  easily  thrown  by, 
To  don  the  better  raiment 

Given  to  us  on  high : 
Leaving  earth-worn  tenement 

For  "mansions  in  the  sky." 


ESTRANGED.  145 

ESTRANGED. 

THE  breath  of  flowers'  sweet  perfume, 

And  strains  of  music,  fill  the  room, 

As  the  swelling  notes  of  the  wedding  march 

Trill  through  the  decorated  arch 

Of  a  stately  church,  in  a  Southern  town, 

Filled  full  to  witness  love's  sweet  crown. 

Approaching  the  altar,  the  two  now  stand, 

Sealing  their  vows  with  close-clasped  hand. 

He,  in  dark  and  manly  beauty, 

Vows  to  cherish  in  bounden  duty  — 

To  love,  protect,  and  shield  from  care, 

And  all  his  earthly  goods  to  share; 

While  she,  so  clinging  and  so  fair, 

With  azure  eyes  and  golden  hair, 

Robed  in  a  silken  train  of  white  — 

A  vision  that  excels  the  light  — 

Screened  by  a  veil  of  fairy  gauze, 

Tastefully  fastened  with  orange  blows, — 

Promises,  too,  that  no  light  cause 

Shall  ever  set  aside  love's  laws ; 

And  that  she'll  honor  and  love  alway 

Him  at  whose  side  she  stands  to-day. 

Ah,  loving  bonds!  how  light  they  seem, 
Securely  held  by  love's  bright  beam  — 
A  chain  that's  woven  of  sweet  flowers 
Like  fairies  breathe  in  aerial  bowers. 
If  bright  are  kept  the  links  that  bind, 
These  bonds  may  always  seem  as  kind; 
19 


146  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

But  love's  a  flower  must  be  tended, 

Or  all  its  beauty  soon  is  ended, 

Its  fragrance  lost,  its  brightness  fled, 

And  it  lies  withered,  sere,  and  dead. 

May  God  forbid  that  these  two  hearts 

Shall  e'er  suffer  the  fiery  darts 

Of  jealousy  or  dark  despair, 

That  comes  when  one  has  ceased  to  care, 

Or  tend  the  beauteous  flower  of  love, 

That  makes  this  world  like  that  above. 


A  month  of  unalloyed  bliss 

Has  fled  as  swiftly  as  the  kiss 

"Which  woke  Endymion,  as  he  lay 

Sleeping,  far  up  the  mountain  way. 

A  new  household  now  finds  its  place, 

In  love  and  beauty's  quiet  grace, 

Among  other  homes ;  and  there  are  none 

With  happier  promise  than  this  one : 

For  love  and  beauty  here  combine, 

In  this  cottage  where  roses  and  eglantine 

In  graceful  beauty  intertwine. 

Charles  to  his  business  devotes  his  powers; 

In  adorning  their  home,  her  leisure  hours 

Sweet  Eva  spends,  or  among  her  flowers, 

Brightening  and  blessing,  like  summer  showers. 

And,  in  the  evenings,  the  sweet  home  life 

Refreshes  his  soul  from  the  care  and  strife 

Of  the  weary  days ;  like  heaven  seems 

The  light  that  from  his  own  hearth  gleams. 


ESTRANGED.  147 

Their  voices  in  sweet  song  unite, 
Or  in  some  rare  new  book  delight. 
O  joy!  of  all  life's  joys  the  sweetest, 
A  happy  home — fullest,  completest! 
Would  that  no  cloud  should  ever  rise 
To  darken  the  brightness  of  their  skies ; 
And  never  the  first  harsh  look  or  tone 
Change  love's  summer  to  colder  zone : 
For  love,  best  boon  to  mortals  given, 
Is  both  the  "  way  and  guide  "  to  heaven. 
O  cherish  it  from  noxious  blast, 
For  to  life's  ship  'tis  sail  and  mast. 

As  structures  great,  from  slightest  flaws, 
Are  weakened,  so,  from  smallest  cause, 
The  even  tenor  of  one's  life 
May  din,  discordant,  with  sad  strife, 
Which  might  have  been  avoided,  had 
Th'  impatient  word  been  left  unsaid. 
Though  small  the  breach,  widening  apace, 
Like  streams  that  great  divergence  trace; 
Or,  like  great  fires  from  smallest  tinder, 
The  first  harsh  word  may  burn  to  cinder 
Love's  rarest  gem — if,  by  rude  winds 
'Tis  fanned,  in  unforgiving  rninds. 
And  often  the  most  loving  hearts, 
Too  sensitive,  feel  keenest,  darts 
Intended  not  to  wound  so  deep; 
But,  once  enlodged,  will  ever  keep 
Rankling  within  the  loving  breast — 
Too  crucial  pain  to  bear  love's  test. 


148  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

And  so,  with  these  two  hearts,  close  bound 
By  ties,  indissolubly  wound, 
Who  have,  for  years,  through  all  the  tide 
Of  joy  and  woe,  walked  side  by  side, — 
Now  first,  by  some  impatience  torn, 
Or  business  cares  too  sadly  worn, 
Bestow  the  angry  look  and  tone 
That  leaves  each  heart  bleeding  and  lone. 
False  pride  bade  each  one  not  to  yield 
The  other  this,  their  first-fought  field. 
Pride,  like  that  by  which  was  riven, 
And  lost  to  angels,  fairest  heaven, 
Loses  to  them  the  quiet  peace 
Of  a  loving  home;  and  soon  they  cease 
The  kindly  care  and  generous  thought 
Which  love,  spontaneously,  brought. 
Indifference  first,  and  then  neglect — 
Foul  weeds  —  spring  up,  and  soon  reflect 
Their  odious  coarseness  on  the  bloom 
In  love's  fair  garden ;  and  the  gloom 
Of  their  rank  shade  around  is  thrown, 
And  pois'nous  pollen  thither  blown; 
Until  the  garden's  overgrown 
With  bitterness  and  discontent, 
Where,  once,  a  hallowed  charm  was  lent 
By  tenderest  love.     Each  one,  intent 
Upon  his  wrongs  and  suffering  tense, 
Knows  not  the  others  wretchedness, 
But  deems  himself  unloved — and  hence 
They  drift  apart  in  loneliness. 


ESTRANGED.  149 

And  firmer  grown  in  this  belief, 

Poor  Eva  seeks,  as  some  relief, 

To  leave  the  home  which  now  but  seems, 

The  sepulcher  of  fondest  dreams. 

But  O,  how  cruelly  it  tears 

Her  tender  heart !  and,  unawares, 

Steals  o'er  her  mind  the  real  worth 

Of  one's  own  loved  and  treasured  hearth. 

But  home  it  is  no  longer,  where 

The  guiding  hand  of  love's  not  there. 

So,  as  the  length'ning  shadows  fall, 

She  takes  a  last  fond  look  at  all: 

"Farewell! — my  dear  old  home, 

Where  I  so  long  have  dwelt; 

Upon  whose  sacred  hearth 

So  often  I  have  knelt;  — 

'Neath  thy  kindly  shelter 

So  long  I've  waked  and  slept; 

Under  thy  dear  old  roof 

So  oft  I've  joyed  and  wept! 

Farewell !  I  must  say  farewell, 
Though  each  sad  sound's  a  knell 
To  every  hope  of  pleasure; 
Farewell,  my  every  treasure ! 

"Each  corner  a  sacred  nook, 
Thy  pictured  walls  my  pride; 
Where  the  firelight  glistened  and  glowed 
So  oft  at  evening-tide ! 


150  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

The  books  that  ever  have  brought 
Sweet  company  and  rest; 
The  piano,  where,  at  twilight, 
I  played  the  songs  loved  best ! 
Now,  passionately,  I  play 
The  old  and  favorite  lay 
Of  '  Home,  Sweet  Home ' — 
A  sob  each  measured  tone. 


"  0  can  I  say  farewell 
To  these  my  cherished  treasures? 
To  the  place  that's  been  the  scene 
Of  my  success  and  failures? 
For  years,  with  best  endeavor, 
I've  sought  to  intertwine 
Love's  choicest  gifts  and  favor 
Around  this  earthly  shrine. 
But  now,  a  long  farewell ! 
No  more  am  I  to  dwell 
In  this  my  much  loved  home  — 
A  wanderer,  I  roam ! " 

And  so  she  sang,  with  aching  heart, 
Her  farewell,  while  the  teardrops  start. 
She  did  not  see  where  she  had  failed, 
And  all  this  misery  entailed, 
Through  lack  of  one  forgiving  word 
When  first  love's  placid  font  was  stirred 
By  angry  words,  and  thoughts  uncurbed, 
Which  all  its  waters  left  disturbed. 


ESTRANGED.  151 

Now,  ere  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 

From  home  and  husband  she  had  gone; 

To  try  if  thus  she  might  forget 

Her  wretchedness,  and  live,  e'en  yet. 

0,  could  she  only  see  or  know 

How  keenly  felt  this  cruel  blow 

By  him,  whose  love  she  thought  was  dead, 

'Twould  have  in  both  hearts  forgiveness  plead, 

And  to  sweet  reconcilement  led 

These  hearts  that,  separated,  bled. 


The  days  have  lengthened  into  weeks  — 

But  the  forgetfulness  she  seeks 

Cannot  be  won.     ~No  matter  where 

She  comes  or  goes,  there  greets  her,  there, 

The  silent  ghost  of  days  so  fair, 

Ere  grief  had  filled  her  heart  with  care. 

Unable  to  resume  once  more 

The  pleasures  which  brought  joy  before, 

She  wanders  restlessly,  unblest, 

Away  from  where  she  might  have  rest, 

If  only  she'd  retrace  her  way, 

This  long  and  lonely  summer's  day. 

A  sudden  yearning  fills  her  breast 
To  see  once  more  the  dear  home  nest, 
And  look  again  upon  the  face 
Whose  ev'ry  image  she  can  trace ; 
Its  lines,  by  absence,  gentler  made, 


152  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

And  lighter — less  and  less  of  shade. 
The  resolution  formed,  she  wastes 
No  time  in  faltering,  but  hastes 
At  swiftest  speed,  on  early  train — 
Ere  courage  fail  or  day  shall  wane  — 
Her  destination,  fair,  to  gain. 
And,  just  as  twilight  shadow  lends 
A  tender  charm  to  all,  she  bends 
Her  eager  footsteps  to  the  spot 
Where  once  so  blessed  had  been  her  lot. 
The  door's  ajar,  the  window  raised; 
She  hears  a  voice,  and  starts,  amazed 
At  hearing,  in  a  low,  sad  strain, 
Her  own  name  breathed  in  soft  refrain : 
"0  Eva!  come  to  me  again! 

"How  desolate  these  bowers 

That  once  were  gay ! 
How  withered  are  the  flowers, 

Now  she's  away, 
Who  lovingly  bestowed 

The  tender  care 
By  which  they  grew  and  glowed 

With  color  rare ! 
How  lonely  are  these  walls  — 

Their  beauty  gone ! 
Startled  my  own  footfalls  — 

Treading  alone, 
Where  two  were  wont  to  walk 

At  twilight's  hour, 
And  in  sweet  converse  talk 
In  this  fair  bower. 


ESTRANGED.  153 

How  dark  and  still  the  place — 

It's  life  all  dead, 
Since  she  who  gave  it  grace 

Has  from  it  fled ! 
A  boat  with  but  one  oar, 

On  midnight  sea!  — 
I  ne'er  knew  gloom  before  — 

Ah !  woe  is  me ! 
I  would  that  I  had  died 

Ere  first  I  said 
Those  angry  words  of  pride  — 

Swift  arrows  sped, 
Unheeding  what  betide." 

She  listens,  breathless,  to  the  end; 
Did  guardian  angels  her  thus  send 
To  hear  these  words  that  tell  her  still 
She's  loved  and  missed?     A  happy  thrill 
Steals  through  her  frame ;  and  at  a  bound 
She's  at  his  side  —  her  arms  are  wound 
About  his  neck  in  sweet  caress 
And  pity  for  his  loneliness. 
"  Forgive ! "  "  Forgive ! "  they  utter,  both, 
The  word  they  had  so  long  been  loth 
To  speak.     The  noblest  word  on  earth  — 
A  rare,  bright  gem,  of  heavenly  birth ! 
20 


154  LOVE  PURIFIED. 


LONGFELLOW. 

As  AMPHION,  by  the  music  of  his  lyre, 

Built  mighty  walls  about  the  ancient  Thebes, 

E'en  so  didst  thou,  in  beauty,  build  a  higher, 

From  which  all  glory  of  the  sky  and  glebes, 

E'en  by  the  common  mind  can  be  discerned  — 

Guided  by  thy  unerring,  gifted  pen. 

The  lowliest  theme  was  never  by  thee  spurned, 

Yet  heavenly  fire  within  thy  pictures  burned. 

"  The  Great  Interpreter ! "  well  hast  thou  earned 

The  title:  for,  unto  thy  fellow-men, 

Thou  didst  show  the  beauty  of  familiar  things 

So  little  thought  of,  and  less  understood; 

Didst  bring  from  far  and  near  most  joyful  tidings, 

To  ev'ry  human  heart,  in  ev'ry  mood ! 


BRYANT. 

PROPHET  and  faithful  priest  of  nature,  thou, 
Who  didst,  at  woodland  altars,  ever  bow 
In  love,  and  praise,  and  adoration  sweet ! 
Thy  heart  in  happy  unison  did  beat 
With  loving  nature,  throbbing  round  thy  feet 
In  flowing  stream,  or  forest's  cool  retreat, 
The  sky's  rich  tinted  hues  at  sunsets  glow, 
Or  zephyrs  sighing  through  the  leaflets,  low; 


LIGHT.  155 

The  mountains — all  of  earth,  or  air,  or  sky, 
Their  secrets  yielded  their  true  votary! 
The  glossy  green  of  forest  leaves,  the  blue 
Of  summer  skies,  the  morn  and  eve's  bright  hue, 
And  ladened  bee,  are  seen  as  one  reads  through 
His  book,  as  fresh  and  fragrant  as  the  dew. 


LIGHT. 

"LET  there  be  light!"  God  said,  "and  there  was 

light!" 

And  it  dispelled  the  chaos  of  the  night 
"Which  long  had  brooded,  darkling,  o'er  the  earth, 
From  its  conception  till  its  glorious  birth. 
His  own  Great  Spirit  lighted  up  the  deep, 
Where  darkness  had,  for  ages,  had  its  keep, 
And  gave  unto  the  light  the  name  of  Day; 
The  darkness  He  called  Night,  and  that  their 

sway 

Might  be  divided,  created,  the  fourth  day, 
The  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  in  bright  array; 
And  set  them  in  the  firmament  to  light — 
The  sun  the  day,  the  lesser  ones  the  night, 
And  they  found  wondrous  favor  in  His  sight. 

The  sun:  that  splendid,  luminous,  central  sphere, 
Sending  to  far  off  Neptune  and  planets  near 
Its  white  and  radiant,  warm  and  cheerful  beams; 
And  through  whose  warmth  and  light  the  earth 
now  gleams, 


156  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

Reflecting  back  a  beauty  new  and  rare ; 

But  there  are  none  yet  to  behold  it,  there, 

Except  the  Lord,  who  "  saw  that  it  was  good," 

And  all  its  use  and  beauty  understood. 

The  penciled  rays,  through  ether's  vast  expanse 

Came  warming  and  delighting  with  their  glance. 

The  light  created,  now  the  perfect  eye 
Was  made  in  God's  own  image,  and,  thereby, 
The  glory  of  the  earth,  and  air,  and  sky, 
And  all  created  things  that  in  them  lie, 
Were  well  perceived  by  man's  immortal  mind — 
Each  mirrored,  by  reflected  light,  in  kind, 
Through  the  transparent  cornea,  far  behind 
Into  the  picture  gallery  of  the  mind. 

O,  why  did  not  the  intellectual  eye 
As  well  discern  lights  of  the  mental  sky  ? 
Those  great,  bright  lights  sent  hither  to  illume 
The  midnight  darkness  of  the  mental  gloom 
Which  had,  for  ages,  been  the  world's  sad  doom. 
The  great  Gallileo,  who  sought  to  prove 
The  sun  the  center,  and  that  earth  did  move, 
Found  recognition  of  these  great  truths  slow, 
And  rack  and  torture  had  to  undergo. 
But  when  released  from  pain  of  inquisition, 
Stoutly  maintained  his  first  and  true  position, 
Determined  that  his  light  should  brightly  shine, 
Though  intolerance  and  ignorance  should  com 
bine 
By  their  opaqueness  to  shut  out  the  line. 


LIGHT.  157 

And  they  who  first,  by  printing,  thought  to  shed 
A  ray  of  light  where  all,  it  seemed,  had  fled, 
And  ignorance  and  darkness  reigned  supreme — 
The  hideous  nightmare  of  a  horrid  dream  — 
And  hoped  to  rend  this  dark  and  thick'ning  veil, 
And  let  the  light  of  hope  and  truth  prevail, 
"Were  deemed,  by  superstitious  minds,  in  league 
"With  demons,  in  some  new  and  dark  intrigue. 
These  noble  benefactors  met,  instead 
Of  love  and  homage,  persecutions  dread. 
And  yet  this  light  shone  brighter,  on  and  on, 
Dispelling  the  dark  shadows,  one  by  one, 
Till  knowledge,  which  so  long  had  dormant  lain 
Through  the  Dark  Ages,  waked  to  life  again: 
Feeble  its  throbbings,  first,  but  gaining  strength 
Until  it  grew,  a  Hercules,  at  length, 
And  ignorance — that  heavy,  galling  chain 
By  which  the  Romish  Popes  had  held  full  reign 
O'er  body  and  soul  of  man,  in  rule  profane  — 
Could  not  'gainst  dawning  light  its  sway  maintain. 
Like  spectral  shadows  of  the  fallen  foe 
Upon  the  walls  of  Prague,  were,  long  ago, 
Dispelled,  the  legend  says,  by  rising  sun, 
E'en  so  it  was  with  this  now  glorious  one. 

Illustrious  Luther  gave  once  more  to  man 
The  "Word  of  Light,  which  long,  by  fiendish  clan, 
Had  been  a  fountain  sealed,  and  quickly  ran 
The  influence  of  this  light  through  all  the  land, 
Unchaining  truth  and  right  with  mighty  hand. 
The  Gospel  of  that  wondrous  Light  that  came 


158  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

To  be  the  light  of  men,  eschewing  fame 

And  Heaven's  delights,  that  He  might  be  to  men 

An  everlasting  Light  and  Glory,  again, 

The  opaqueness  of  the  mental  eye  removed, 

Its  vision  thus  restored  and  soon  improved, 

A  great  Illuminator  warmed  and  glowed 

Where   long  the   stagnant   stream   of  darkness 

flowed, 

Brooded  by  vultures — man  by  man  destroyed  — 
By  ignorance  divided  and  destroyed. 
This  reign  of  terror  passed,  the  Light  of  Love 
Shines  for  the  hearts  of  all  who  round  it  move, 
Irradiating  wondrous  fire  and  glow 
To  open  hearts  that  long  the  truth  to  know. 

But  why,  e'en  yet,  will  some  whom  God  has  given 

His  glorious  Light  to  guide  their  feet  to  heaven, 

And  perfect  mental  vision  to  behold 

His  goodness  and  His  glories  manifold, 

Still  let  so  many  objects  come  between 

Their  souls  and   this   One  Great  and   Glorious 

Sheen, 

Eclipsing  all  its  brightness,  and  still  walk 
In  darkened  paths,  where  death  and  danger  stalk? 
Why  still  do  ignorance  and  division  tread 
Life's  highways  —  where  the  truth  should  reign 

instead  ? 

For  light,  if  not  obstructed,  ever  brings 
The  perfect  image  of  beholden  things. 
O,  keep  the  soul  and  mind  transparent,  bright, 
That  God's  own  Word  may  there  reflect  the  light. 


0  NEVER  AGAIN.  159 


O  NEVER  AGAIN. 

GONE  is  my  youth  and  gladness  — 
Gone  is  the  wife  of  my  heart! 

I  tread  life's  way  with  sadness 
And  with  longing  to  depart. 

In  years  I  am  not  old, 

But  the  joy  of  life  is  fled. 
The  hearth  of  home  is  cold, 

Its  shining  light  is  dead. 

0  never  again,  for  me, 

Will  a  hearth  glow  as  warm  and  bright; 
And  never  again  will  I  see 

Lamps  that  give  out  such  light. 

And  never  again  shall  I  rest, 

This  side  of  eternity, 
As  I  did  in  the  dear  home-nest, 

Encouraged  and  soothed  by  thee. 

Each  joy  was  doubled  by  sharing — 
Each  sorrow  was  lightened,  too; 

1  could  fight  life's  battles  with  daring, 
Helped  by  a  smile  from  you. 

But  now  I  have  no  joys  to  share, 
And  sorrows  must  bear  alone; 

I'm  weary  with  life's  fitful  care — 
My  once  happy  lot  I  bemoan. 


160  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

O,  why  is  there  given  such  bliss, 
So  sweet  but  so  short-lived, 

If  there's  not  a  world  beyond  this, 
Where  we'll  never  be  deprived 

Of  love,  and  rest,  and  home, 
And  all  that  makes  life  sweet? 

Where  never  again  we  shall  roam 
With  tired  and  lonely  feet? 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 

THE  day  has  come  when  we  again 
Strew  flowers  o'er  our  heroes  slain; 
And,  with  the  garlands  that  we  weave 
For  those  for  whom  we  sadly  grieve, 
Come  memories  of  noble  deeds  — 
The  clash  of  arms,  the  neigh  of  steeds; 
And  once  again  our  country  bleeds, 
As  right  with  wrong  so  sternly  pleads 
In  all  dread  warfare's  rigid  needs. 

We  hear  once  more  the  rousing  call 
For  those  who  love  their  country,  all, 
Under  her  banner  to  enlist 
To  help  dispel  the  rising  mist 
Which  threatened  to  become  a  pall. 
When  — "  Rally  'round  the  flag  boys," 
Filled  the  village  streets  with  noise; 


MEMOKIAL  DAY.  161 

Or, "  Left,  right !  left,  right !"  sounding  shrill, 

As  officers  essayed  to  drill 

Steps  that  hitherto  had  trod 

In  furrows  made  by  fresh-turned  clod, 

Or,  peacefully,  their  own  green  sod. 

"To  arms!  to  arms!"  rang  through  the  land, 
And  answering  it,  a  loyal  band 
Came  thronging,  by  the  flag  to  stand. 
Even  the  children  caught  the  fire 
Of  patriotism  and  holy  ire, 
And  rallied  'neath  the  colors  dear, 
With  loyal  songs  and  words  of  cheer; 
Helping  in  others  to  inspire 
Enthusiasm,  and  desire 
To  save  the  land  at  any  price  — 
Even  their  lives  the  sacrifice. 

"With  bayonets  glistening  in  summer  sun, 
The  last  fond  word  and  farewell  done, 
Father,  husband,  brother,  friend, 
And  lover,  now,  their  voices  blend 
In  rousing  cheers  for  native  land, 
And  for  the  dear  ones  left  behind. 
And  then  we  see  them  march  away — 
O,  ever  memorable  day ! 
Their  hearts  high-beating  at  the  thought 
Of  freedom  won  by  battles  fought; 
They  dash  away  the  hasty  tear, 
To  glance  once  more  back  to  the  rear 
To  catch  the  last  hand  wave  of  dear 
21 


162  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

And  loving  ones.     Again  they  cheer; 
Seeking  to  drive  away  the  fear 
They  see  in  the  blanched  faces,  there, 
Of  mothers,  wives,  and  sweethearts  fair. 
Proudly,  sadly  they  march  away, 
Thinking  of  those  they  may  never  see; 
The  drum  and  fife  sorrowf 'ly  play 
"  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me." 
The  terrors  of  war  as  yet  unknown, 
This  was  its  first  sad  undertone  — 
Leaving  their  dear  ones  all  alone. 
The  rallies,  and  dinners,  and  drill  had  been 
Like  a  victor's  march  in  triumphal  din; 
But  now  stern  warfare  they  must  face, 
Till  left  no  mark  of  treason's  trace. 


Village  and  farm  left  desolate — 
This  is  war's  too  cruel  fate. 
The  gray-haired  man  and  fair-haired  youth 
Have  gone  to  fight  for  home  and  truth; 
And  those  in  prime  of  hope  and  strength 
Have  gone,  until  there's  left,  at  length, 
Scarce  one  to  guard  the  town  from  foes 
That  hold  the  border  land  in  throes 
Of  fear  and  deep  alarm :  repose 
Becomes  a  thing  unknown  to  those 
Weary  and  anxious  women,  who 
Eagerly  watch  the  coming  through 
Of  the  daily  carrier  of  the  news 
From  the  seat  of  war.     He  sadly  views 


MEMORIAL  DAY.  163 

The  anxious  group  that  gathers  there, 

Knowing  the  deep  suspense  and  care 

Gnawing  their  hearts ;  and  feels  a  fear 

Lest  e'en  the  victory,  bought  so  dear, 

Of  which  he  brings  them  word,  may  sear 

The  last  fond  hope;  for  some  may  hear 

Of  loved  ones  fallen  on  battled  field, 

And  life  to  them  no  more  shall  yield 

Aught  but  loneliness  and  grief. 

The  list  of  names  is  read  in  brief 

And  eager  tones.     "0  God,  'tis  true!" 

A  mother  cries,  "  My  boy  in  blue 

In  the  front  ranks  has  fallen,  too ! " 

And,  weeping,  she  falls  upon  the  breast 

Of  the  gentle  girl  whom  he  loved  best; 

Together  they  mingle  their  tears  and  moan 

For  a  life  that  was  dearer  to  both  than  their  own. 

A  wife,  with  eager  and  pallid  face, 

In  missing  or  wounded  list  can  trace, 

E'en  through  her  tears,  the  name  of  him 

Without  whose  love  life  seemed  so  dim; 

She  looks  in  wondering  baby  eyes, 

So  like  to  his,  and  bravely  tries 

To  summon  courage  to  endure 

The  dread  suspense  she  cannot  cure. 

"  Wounded  or  missing,  dying  or  dead :  " 

This  was  what  the  papers  said — 

And  life  was  o'er  for  those  who  read. 

O  "War !  dark  vulture  brooding  o'er 
Hearts  and  homes  where,  e'er  before, 


164  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

Love,  and  hope,  and  light  had  lent 

A  charm  to  life;  ere  treason  rent 

Our  glorious  land  with  dark  intent ! 

But,  at  length,  the  cloud  is  past  — 

The  Union  saved;  and  now,  at  last, 

They  who  are  left  betake  their  way 

Homeward — impatient  at  delay. 

But  O  the  thousands  of  proud,  brave  men 

"Who  never  came  back  to  their  homes  again ! 

And  0  how  many  have  died,  since  then, 

From  health  that  was  weakened  in  prison  pen, 

Or  by  exposure  and  hardened  fare 

That  surrounds  the  soldier  everywhere ! 

Strew  flowers  —  strew  flowers  of  brightest  hue 

Over  the  graves  of  our  heroes  true! 

Fire  the  guns  and  muffle  the  drums! 

Check  not  the  tear  that  quickly  comes, 

As  memories  of  our  noble  slain 

Come  thronging  in  a  golden  train ! 

Let  young  and  old,  in  one  acclaim, 

Attest  the  honor  and  the  fame 

In  which  we  hold  the  soldier's  name : 

They  whose  lives  were  sanctified 

Through  love  of  country — noble  pride! 

And  while  we  lay  our  offerings  down  — 

Tokens  of  love  and  true  renown  — 

May  God  give  an  eternal  crown ! 


OUK  COUNTRY.  165 


OUR  COUNTRY. 

'  OUR  country,  'tis  of  thee," 

We  proudly  sing! 
For  thy  prosperity 

Best  wishes  bring ! 
Blest  be  thy  liberty  — 

Each  man  a  king ! 

There  lies  beneath  the  sun 

No  fairer  land 
Than  this,  our  loved  one  — 

United  band 
Of  loyal  States,  begun 

By  justice's  hand. 

May  it  no  more  be  rent 

By  aught  of  ill; 
But,  to  its  lustre,  lent 

Each  noble  thrill 
Of  loyal  hearts,  content 

With  country  still. 

And  as,  in  days  of  yore, 

Sweet  liberty 
Was  prized  as  naught  before, 

E'en  so  may  we 
Lay  up,  in  royal  store, 

Its  dignity: 


166  LOVE   PURIFIED. 

Teach  all  our  boys  and  girls 

Its  worth  to  prize ; 
And  as  our  flag  unfurls 

Free  to  the  skies, 
So  let  their  thoughts — bright  pearls 

For  freedom  rise. 

"  Our  country,  'tis  of  thee," 

"We  sing  to-day! 
Thou  art  so  great  and  free !  — 

For  thee  we  pray, 
That  free  thou'lt  ever  be, 

And  blest  thy  sway ! 

And  vast  eternity 

Shall  catch  the  ray 
Of  light  shed  out  by  thee 

For  eternal  day ! 
God  bless  our  country,  free !  — 

For  this  we  pray. 
JULY  4,  1886. 


WRECK  OF  THE  STEAMER  SULTANA. 

APRIL  26, 1865. 

AT  the  wharf  at  Memphis  the  steamer  lay, 

IHum'ed  by  the  sunlight's  glistening  ray, 

At  nearly  the  close  of  a  sweet  spring  day. 

In  power,  and  beauty,  and  grace, 

A  magnificent  floating  palace — 

The  pride  and  pomp  of  the  river's  array. 


WRECK  OF  THE  STEAMER  SULTANA.  167 

And  crowded  on  the  decks  around, 

Two  thousand  soldiers,  homeward  bound, 

With  weakened  health,  and  many  a  wound, 

Stand  watching  the  setting  sun, 

Thinking,  ere  many  a  one 
Has  set,  the  "welcome  home"  shall  sound. 

The  wished  for  hour  has  come  at  last — 

Seiges  and  battles  are  things  of  the  past; 

No  more  will  they  march  at  the  bugle's  blast, 
But  be  free  to  resume,  once  more, 
The  pursuits  of  the  years  before — 

Ere  the  dark  cloud  of  war  its  shadow  cast. 

How  good  it  seems  to  be  free  again  — 
Free  from  the  Southern  prison  pen  — 
Free  to  act  and  think  as  men. 

And  a  hope  beams  in  the  eye, 

As  they  watch  the  sunset  sky, 
Of  seeing  home  and  friends  again. 

And  many  happy  words  are  spoken 
That  all  the  joy  of  hope  betoken; 
And  thus  the  tiresome  delay  is  broken. 

The  sun  at  last  is  down, 

And  brilliant  lights  of  the  town 
Shed  out  their  gleaming  ray  unbroken. 

At  length  the  crew  have  sought  repose, 
And,  wrapt  in  slumber,  dream  of  those 


168  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

So  dear  to  them.     Now  onward  goes 

The  great  boat,  glidingly 

And  majestically, 
Bearing  its  precious  freight  of  heroes. 

Enjoy  thy  dreams,  O  soldier  true, 
'Tis  all  that's  left  for  thee  to  do!— 
The  joy  that's  permeating  through 

The  happy,  throbbing  brow 

"Will  be  the  last — for  now, 
Death,  instead  of  home,  awaits  you. 

A  loud  explosion  rends  the  air — 

More  terrible  than  cannons  are! 

And  now  confusion,  wild,  reigns  where 
So  peacefully  they  dreamed 
That  almost  home  they  seemed; 

And  all  is  horror  and  dark  despair. 

The  water  is  covered  with  a  writhing  niass- 
A  wounded,  helpless,  drowning  mass — 
And  the  boats  are  all  blown  away.     Alas ! 
The  hope  that  fanned  their  dreams 
A  mocking  phantom  seems — 
For  now  it  can  never  come  to  pass. 

Some  struggle  wildly  with  despair, 
And  shrieks  for  help  now  rend  the  air, 
But  all  in  vain — no  help  is  there. 
The  boat  that  proudly  came 
Is  now  all  wreathed  in  flame, 
Shedding  on  the  scene  a  lurid  glare. 


LITTLE  THINGS.  169 

And  they  who  oft  had  faced  death  where 
The  bullets  whistled  through  the  air, 
With  bitter  cry  of  offered  prayer, 

Leap  from  the  burning  boat; 

But  the  waters  only  gloat, 
And  close  again  o'er  a  prey  so  fair. 

The  balmy  morning  dawns,  at  last, 

But  the  struggle  for  life  has  long  been  past; 

The  soldiers  awake  not — their  eyes  are  fast 
Closed  in  that  dreamless  sleep, 
In  their  couch  in  the  watery  deep  — 

Waiting  the  call  of  the  last  trumpet's  blast. 

Of  all  who  had  watched  the  setting  sun, 
With  thoughts  of  home  now  almost  won, 
How  few  are  left  to  hail  this  one ! 

Nearer  home  than  they  thought — 

All  of  life's  battles  fought 
In  this,  their  last,  hard,  desperate  one ! 

The  "  Father  of  Waters  "  thy  shroud  and  thy  grave, 
Sleep  peacefully  under  the  dark,  turbid  wave, 
O  soldiers,  true-hearted,  enduring  and  brave ! 


LITTLE  THINGS. 

THE  angry  word  that's  said  in  haste 
Seems  but  a  little  thing; 

But  O  the  heart 's  a  burning  waste 
Embittered  by  its  sting. 
22 


170  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

The  careless  word  of  gossip's  tongue, 

Unheeding  where  it  falls, 
May  break  the  finest  friendship  'mong 

Those  whom  its  venom  thralls. 

The  wine-cup  raised  to  boyish  lips 

Is  thought  a  trivial  thing; 
But  'tis  not  long  ere  fiery  sips 

Death  and  destruction  bring. 

One  glass  too  much  with  friends  imbibed 
Robbed  a  nation  of  her  king;  — 

The  history,  for  years  inscribed, 
Changed  by  this  little  thing. 

The  first  wrong  step  quickly  retraced 
Would  little  trouble  bring; 

But  if  pursued,  soon  is  effaced 
The  way  to  true  living. 

A  kindly  word,  or  look,  or  tone, 

Given  to  hearts  that  bleed, 
Soothes  many  a  care  and  bitter  moan ; 

And  supplements  their  need. 

The  few  things  learned  each  day  we  live, 

And  treasured  up  as  small, 
Do,  in  the  end,  much  knowledge  give, 

And  pave  the  way  to  all. 

Each  tempter  foiled,  each  victory  won, 
Gives  strength  to  win  again : 


ACROSS  THE  FIELDS.  171 

We  fight  life's  battles  one  by  one, 
On  mountain  top  or  fen. 

O  can  we  call  these  little  things, 

That  sway  a  nation's  fate  ? 
Or  to  our  lives  so  surely  bring 

A  joy  or  woe  so  great? 

There  is  no  Lilliputian  scale 

For  seeming  little  things; 
For  each  one  is  a  knight  in  mail, 

Which  shame  or  honor  brings. 


ACROSS  THE  FIELDS. 

ACROSS  the  fields  of  life  we  stray 

Gathering  golden  grain; 
Gleaming  and  winnowing  every  day, 

Some  treasure  new  to  gain. 

The  stubble,  though  bright,  is  rough  to  our  feet, 

As  we  follow  the  reapers'  train, 
Gathering  up  the  golden  wheat, 

The  bread  of  life  to  gain. 

Hard  must  we  glean  in  the  fields  of  thought 

Under  the  harvest  sun, 
Gath'ring  up  where  others  have  wrought, 

Winnowing  when  day  is  done. 


172  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

And  many  handfuls  of  golden  grain 

Are  left,  by  reapers  kind, 
To  cheer  and  gladden  the  weary  brain 

Of  the  industrious  mind. 

Let  us  glean,  too,  in  the  harvest  of  souls, 

Seeking  if  we  may  bring 
Even  one  of  our  comrades,  out  of  the  shoals, 

Unto  the  Harvest  King. 


GENIUS. 

JUST  as  the  artist  catches  every  shade 
And  richly-tinted  coloring  of  the  sky, 
And  makes  them  live  again  on  glowing  canvas, — 
Even  so  the  poet-artist  must  imbibe 
And  catch  each  light  and  shade  of  passing  feel 
ing; 

Each  longing  aspiration  and  each  sigh 
At  failures;    each  bounding  throb  of  gladsome 

rapture 

When  high  success  has  crowned  the  laboring  oar; 
The  shout,  the  silent  tear,  the  laugh,  the  moan — 
He  should  depict  it  all  as  if  his  own 
Heart  beat  with  fever  heat  with  all  the  world. 

His  ear  should  catch  the  music  high  above 
The  harsh,  discordant  notes  of  lower  air, 
And  in  melodious  measures  sing  it  o'er 
To  fellow  mortals  struggling  on  the  way. 


HOMESICK.  173 

His  eyes  should  note  all  beauty,  everywhere, 

Of  spirit,  or  of  earth  and  air  and  sky; 

And  he  should  then  interpret  it  to  man, 

In  words  that  burn  and  glow  with  heavenly  fire. 


HOMESICK. 

IF  childhood  could  come  again, 
With  its  long,  bright  afternoons; 

The  orchard,  and  home,  and  mother; 
The  restful,  quiet  moons — 

How  quickly  our  cares  would  vanish, 
And  heal  the  deep  heart  wounds. 

If  only  again  we  could  saunter 
Down  the  shady  path  to  the  well, 

Or  through  the  leafy  orchard 
Where  we  loved  to  sit  so  well, 

How  much  of  life's  hard  burden 
We'd  roll  off — who  can  tell? 

O  the  dear,  old-fashioned  home, 

So  full  of  rest  and  peace ! 
To  thee  we  would  gladly  come, 

And  gain  a  sweet  surcease 
From  cares,  which,  with  the  years, 

Alarmingly  increase. 

O  rosy,  care-free  childhood! 
'No  poet's  pen  can  paint 


174  LOVE   PURIFIED. 

Thy  free  and  happy  pleasures, 
Before  the  world's  restraint 

Has  harshened  the  sweet  measures 
By  its  sad,  selfish  taint. 


WHEN  LIFE  IS  O'ER. 

LIFE'S  "fitful  fever  o'er," 

We  will  no  more  deplore 

The  endless  woes  in  store 

For  mortals  here. 

We'll  leave  all  harrowing  carer 
And  dwell  forever  where 
God's  loved  and  just  ones  are 
When  life  is  over. 

When  we  shall  live  anew, 

The  good  we  sought  to  do 

But  did  not  carry  through 

Will  then  appear. 

All  will  be  understood  — 
The  "why"  of  bad  and  good, 
If  just  the  best  we  could 

We  wrought  while  here. 

And  heart  shall  speak  to  heart; 
And  ne'er  be  torn  apart 
By  doubt,  or  angry  dart 
Of  passion's  whim. 


A  BOUNDLESS  OCEAN.  175 

Life's  "fitful  fever  o'er," 
God  grant  that  we  may  soar 
To  realms  where,  evermore, 
We'll  rest  in  peace. 


A  BOUNDLESS  OCEAK 

THE  world  is  a  boundless  ocean — 
Like  little  boats  we  ride, 

Driven,  by  circumstances, 
In  and  out  with  the  tide. 


We  never  know  when  we're  happy  — 
Life's  pleasures  seem  greatest  when  past; 

Tossed  hither  and  yon  by  the  breakers, 
We're  engulfed  by  a  maelstrom  at  last. 

Would  we  could  sail  o'er  life's  ocean 

In  ships  all  iron-clad, 
Pouring  oil  on  troubled  waters  — 

Smiling,  however  sad ! 

Ruling,  not  succumbing, 

The  angry  waves  of  fate ; 
And,  by  noble,  steady  doing, 

Make  our  lives  consecrate ! 


176  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

A  SONG. 

• 

LIFE  has  nothing  worth  giving 

But  love. 
'Twould  not  be  worth  living 

'Thout  love. 

There's  naught  so  refining, 
So  free  from  repining, 
So  like  stars  a-shining, 

As  love. 

Chorus:  Love,  love,  blest  love  — 

Life  has  nothing  worth  giving 

But  love. 

Life  has  nothing  worth  giving  - 
'Twould  not  be  worth  living — 
'Twould  not  be  worth  living 
'Thout  love. 

There  is  nothing  worth  seeking 

But  love, 
Through  all  the  worlds  eking 

'Tis  love. 

Fond  hearts  close  combining, 
Kin  souls  thus  entwining  — 
Brings  richest  heart-mining: 

Sweet  love ! 

There  is  naught  up  in  heaven 

But  love; 
The  Rock  that  was  riven 

"Was  love. 


LABORERS  WITH  GOD.  177 

And  there  we'll  be  given 
A  love  pure  as  heaven — 
Our  sins  all  forgiven 

Through  love. 


LABORERS  WITH  GOD. 

FOR  we  are  "  laborers  with  God," 
The  great  mosaic,  soul,  to  build; 

"We  should  make  life  a  masterpiece 
When  aided  by  so  high  a  guild. 


God's  not  in  need  of  our  poor  aid, 
But  stoops  to  help  us  as  we  build: 

Let  us  be  guided  by  His  law — 

His  hand  than  ours  is  much  more  skilled. 


Be  careful  how  and  where  we  build  — 

Make  the  great  structure  strong  and  pure ; 
Build  on  the  true  Foundation  Stone, 

That  it  in  beauty  shall  endure 
When  tried  by  deep  adversity — 

The  fire,  and  rain,  and  heavy  storm. 
If  planned  by  the  Great  Architect, 

'Twill  stand  in  whiter,  cleaner  form. 

23 


178  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

GROWING. 

THE  growing  flower  needs  the  sun, 
Its  fragrant  beauty  to  unfold; 

And  in  our  lives  must  shine  God's  love, 
Their  grace  and  usefulness  to  mold. 

The  plant  needs  wind  and  rain,  as  well — 
Daylight  and  darkness,  dew  and  shade ; 

And  so  by  trials  hard  to  bear 

Our  souls  are  often  stronger  made. 

God  leads  us  often  through  the  sea, 
Or  o'er  the  desert's  burning  sand, 

That  by  this  schooling  we  may  gain 
The  power  to  "possess  the  land." 

Then  let  us  murmur  not  at  fate — 
Contented  be,  whate'er  betide; 

If  only  we  at  last  may  meet 
Our  Savior  on  the  other  side. 


CLEPSYDRA. 

THE  water  steals  away 
Through  the  ancient  clepsydra, 
As  the  fleeting  moments  stray; 
The  notches,  that  tell  the  hours 
On  the  stick,  as  the  water  lowers, 
Show  us  time's  passing  hours. 


CLEPSYDRA.  179 

Our  life,  too,  steals  away 
Through  Time's  great  clepsydra — 
It's  drops  we  cannot  stay. 
There  are  notches  that  tell  the  hours, 
The  fresh  or  the  withered  flowers — 
The  strong  or  the  failing  powers. 

We  know  when  it  is  the  morn 
By  the  brimming  hope,  new-born, 
That  all  will  be  oil  and  corn 
And  love  along  life's  highway, 
And  brilliant  will  be  the  day, 
As  the  waters  glide  away. 

"When  half  empty  is  the  jar, 
And  doubt  and  sorrow  mar 
Our  once  most  brilliant  star, 
We  know  it  is  high  noon 
Come  to  our  lives  too  soon, 
Ere  half  solved  the  mystic  rune. 

Children  to  men  have  grown ! 
And  one  by  one  have  flown 
Old  friends — their  graves  are  strewn 
With  tears  and  flowers  sweet; 
And  here  and  there  we  meet 
Another,  with  tired  feet, 

Like  us  grown  old  and  gray, 
His  life  fast  slipping  away 
Toward  its  closing  day; 


180  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

And  we  know  the  eve  draws  near. 

Happy,  if  we  may  hear 

The  hour  sound  strong  and  clear.* 


BE  GENTLE. 

O  CURB  the  self-assertion 

That  rises  quick  and  strong — 

'  Tis  not  the  right  nutrition 
For  love  and  peace  at  home. 

The  angry  word  will  linger 

And  in  each  bosom  burn, 
Like  bite  of  pois'nous  stinger, 

In  the  atmosphere  of  home. 

And  it  will  bring  no  sooner 

The  recognition  sought; 
For  love  and  justice,  ever, 

By  gentleness  are  brought. 

And  sweeter  far  than  honey 

To  the  hearts  of  those  we  love — 

Better  than  fame  or  money — 
Will  the  soft  answer  prove. 

O  guard  the  priceless  treasure  — 
The  love  within  your  home ; 

And  do  not  stint  its  measure 
Or  let  its  brightness  gloam, 

*  Some  of  the  wealthier  ancients  had  clepsydras  which  sounded  a  musical 
riote  each  hour, 


NOW,  AND  THEN.  181 

Through  lack  of  kindly  favor 

And  gentle  patient  tone. 
He  who  is  slow  to  anger 

Rules  on  the  highest  throne. 

In  all  this  wide  world  over 
Let  us  make  one  spot  so  dear, 

That  our  souls  shall  find  safe  harbor 
From  storms  of  doubt  and  fear. 


NOW,  AND  THEN. 

THE  things  of  life  seem  wonderfully  small, 
Compared  to  those  beyond — and  why  enthrall 
Our  minds  and  hearts  by  making  them  our  all  ? 

What  though  success  our  efforts  does  not  crown 
With  joy,  or  love,  or  pittance  of  renown, 
If,  at  the  last,  we  gain  a  heavenly  crown  ? 

What  though  our  eager  hands  do  fail  to  grasp 
The  laurel,  and  unfinished  is  our  task, 
If  but,  at  last,  our  Savior's  hand  we  clasp? 

What  though 'Our  hearts  are  often  sore  oppressed 
In  this  short  life,  and  anguish  fill  the  breast, 
If,  in  the  great  hereafter,  we  gain  rest? 

What  though  our  longing  eyes  may  fail  to  see 
The  consummation  of  our  aims,  if  we 
May  win,  for  work,  heaven's  vast  eternity? 


182  LOVE  PURIFIED. 

What  though  by  adverse  winds  our  lives  be  driven, 
And  on  time's  rocky  coast  be  sadly  riven, 
If  we  but  anchor  safe,  at  last,  in  heaven  ? 

Love,  fame,  wealth  and  earthly  ease  — 

O  we  can  well  afford  to  lose  all  these, 

If  fanned  our  brows,  at  last,  by  heaven's  breeze. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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